Full text of "Worlds of IF (May 1962)"

See other formats

RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN

worlds of

Vi'Vtl'VC

iction

DON’T CLIP
THE COUPON-

— if you want to keep your copy of Galaxy intact for permanent possession!*
Why mutilate a good thing? But, by the same token ... if you’re devotee
enough to want to keep your copies in mint condition, you ought to subscribe.
You really ought to. For one thing, you get your copies earlier. For another, you're
sure you’ll get them! Sometimes newsstands run out — the mall never does.

(And you can just put your name and address on a plain sheet of paper
and mail it to us, at the address below. We’ll know what you mean...
provided you enclose your check!)

In the past few years Galaxy has published the finest stories
by the finest writers in the field - Bester, Heinlein, Pohl,

Asimov, Sturgeon, Leiber and nearly everyone else.

In the next few years it will go right on, with stories that are
just as good ... or better.

Don’t miss any issue of Galaxy. You can make sure you won't. Just subcribe
today.

*(lf, on the other hand, your habit Is to read them once and
go on to something new — please - feel free to use the
coupon! It’s for your convenience, not ours.)

GALAXY Publishing Corp., 421 Hudson Street, New York 14, N. Y. additional

Enter my subscription for the New Giant 196-page Galaxy . ^ .

foreign postage)

(U. S. Edition only) for;

6 Issues @ $2.50 12 Issues @ $4.50 24 Issues @ $8.50

Name City...

Address Zone.,

.State..

(jolb

COM/ (uhCIm

fctfe!

Only one power controls your
destiny— a strange force sleeping
in your mind. Awaken it ! Com-
mand it to obey you ! PusK
obstacles aside and attain your
fondest hopes and ideals. Let
the Rosicrucians show you how
this can be done.

Learn why many of history’s
great masters were Rosicrucians
such as Leonardo de Vinci, Ben-
jamin Franklin, Isaac Newton,
Sir Francis Bacon, etc. Each of
these men learned how to con-
trol their fate, to develop mind
power, to attain success and
tiappiness. The knowledge that
helped these men of history is
now helping thousands of think-
ing men and women throughout
the world climb to new heights
they, at one time, thought im-
possible. And they are no dif-
rermt than you !

SEND FOR FREE BOO^

Why not discover for yourself how
you can take advantage of this price-
less knowledge The Rosicrucians
have preserved through the ages.
If you are sincere in wanting greater
success, security and happiness send
TODAY for the fascinating FREE
book, "The Mastery of Life.” There
is no obligation and it may mean
the turning point in your life, to-
ward achievements you’ve never be-
lieved possible. Why not do it
NOW? Just address your request to:
Scribe W.Z.E.

The ROSICRUCIANS (AMORC)

SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA
(NOT o religious orgonization)

worlds

MAY 1962
All Stories New
and Complete

VoL 12, Number 2

Robert M, Guinn, Publisher
Sam Ruvidichj Arf Director
Frederik Pohl, Managing Editor
Theodore Sturgeon, Feature Editor

NOVELLA

The 64-Square Madhouse by Fritz Leiber 64
NOVELETTES

Retief of the Red-Tape Mountain by Keith Laumer 7
Death and Taxes by H. A. Hartzell 26

SHORT STORIES
The Spy by Theodore L, Thomas 22
Misrule by Robert Scott 39
Deadly Game by Edward Wellen 51
The Hoplite by Richard Sheridan 55
Gramp by Charles V. De Vet 101
The Expendables by Jim Harmon 113

SPECIAL FEATURES
Jots and Tittles Editorial 5

...And Besides Those Bombs... Science Feature 48
The Other IF by Theodore Sturgeon 107
Hue and Cry 126

Next issue (July) on sale May 10th

IF published bi-monthly by Digest Productions Corporation, Vol. 12, No. 2
Main Office: 421 Hudson Street, New York 14, New York 35c per copy.
Subscriptions 12 Issues ?3.00 in the United States, Canada, 'Mexico, South
and Central America and U. S. possessions, elsewhere |4.00. Second-class
postag'e paid at New York, New York, and at additional mailing offices.
Copyright by Digest Productions Corporation, 1962. All rights including
translations reserved. All material submitted must be accompanied by
self-addressed stamped envelopes. The publisher assumes no responsibility
for unsolicited material. All stories printed in this magazine are fic-
tion, and any similarity between characters and actual persons is coinciden-
tal. Printed in the U. S. A. by the Guinn Company, Inc., New York
14, N. y.

JOTS

AND

TiniES

IF • Editorial

WE don’t know what a tit-
tle is and (please!) we
don't want to know. It just
seems to go along pretty well
with Jots.

Beating the breeze with our
bearded Feature Editor the
other day, and he came up
with an interesting thought
about your letters. He was
mulling over the fact — if it is
a fact — that there hasn’t been
a really brilliant new s-f au-
thor in a dozen years. He says
he doesn’t agree with this
completely, but somebody said
it at a Conference. Back in
what Sam Moskowitz calls the
Golden Age of S-F— 1939-’42,
good authors appeared out of
nowhere in gross lots : d’fcl

Key, Heinlein, Simak,' Lein-

ster, Don A. Stuart, Ray Brad-
bury, Jerome Bixby and
plenty more, all in a matter of
months. Our bearded F. E.
wondered if the letter col-
umns of the day had anything
to do with it.

You’d be surprised how
many of that bumper crop
used to write to the magazines
months and years before they
sold stories to them. Did the
writing of those letters turn
them into good authors, or at
least toward authorship? Or
did they write just because
they were writers? Our B.F.E.
had no opinion on that; but
one thing he did point out was
that the letters they wrote
were, more often than not,
crackling with humor and

loaded with information.
There was many a good-
natured fist-fight in those col-
umns, and a lot of highly mis-
cellaneous matters got
thrashed out.

We wagged our editorial
head and told the B.F.E. that
some readers nowadays com-
plain that letter columns are
just plain dull. And we added
that when Galaxy put it to a
vote, the majority said — no
letters. Well, said the B.F.E.
scratching his head (with his
beard ; he has talent, you
know) maybe they say that be-
cause it’s true. And if it’s true,
all anyone has to do is to write
bright, sparkling letters. Then
the column won’t be dull, peo-
ple will read it, more will
write to it. And maybe, the
B.F.E. added thoughtfully,
maybe after a few months of
sharpening their wits against
one another, there’ll be a
whole explosion of good new
writers who can bounce from
the letter pages in . the back to
the bill-of-fare up front.

Just a thought, he said.

WE don’t know quite what
to do with the thought,
so we pass it on to you.

Speaking of the B.F.E., by
the way, who says his name
(this week anyway) is Theo-
dore Sturgeon, be it known, if
you don’t know it already, that
he is to be the Guest of Honor
at the Chicon II, which is the
World Science Fiction Con-
vention to be held at the Pick-
Congress Hotel in Chicago,

next Labor Day weekend.
Memberships ($2) and infor-
mation can be had from
George W. Price, Treasurer,
P.O. Box 4864, Chicago 80,
which is still in Illinois. The
B.F.E. is honored, IF is hon-
ored, and you ought to try to
make it because it’s going to
be one big beautiful bash.

A writer friend of ours re-
ports that he was faced recent-
ly with a writer’s dream: the
sight of a total stranger in a
diner eating slowly and raptly
reading one of this writer’s
books. Our hero pinched him-
self to see if he was awake,
and he was ; he sat quiet
awhile and pondered which of
many delectable ways and
means he might use to start
the conversation which would
have to reach the wonderful,
‘‘You mean you wrote this?”
and the quite-casual, ‘‘Why,
yes, it happens I did.”

Deciding at last on the dou-
ble-reverse, or hyperbolic ap-
proach, the writer leaned over
to the diner and said, ‘‘Hey,
Mac, what you want to read
that kind of junk for?”

The diner slowly closed the
book and gazed at it as if he’d
never really seen it before.
Then he nodded and said, “I
think you got something
there,” tipped the book off the
counter onto the floor, ate the
rest of his French apple pie
and left without looking back.

We don’t quite know what
to do with this story either, so
you can have it too.

THE EDITOR

IF • Novelette

Retief knew the importance of sealed orders

and the need to keep them that way!

by KEITH LAUMER ILLUSTRATED BY GAUGHAN

RETIEF

OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN

44TT*S true,” Consul Pass-
Awyn said, requested as-
signment as principal officer
at a small post. But I had in
mind one of those charming
resort worlds, with only an
occasional visa problem, or
perhaps a distressed space-
man or two a year. Instead,
I'm zoo-keeper to these con-
founded settlers. And not for
one world, mind you, but
eight!” He stared glumly at
Vice-Consul Retief.

“Still,” Retief said, “it gives
an opportunity to travel — ”
“Travel !” the consul barked.
“I hate travel. Here in this
backwater system particular-
ly— ” He paused, blinked at
Retief and cleared his throat.
“Not that a bit of travel isn^t
an excellent thing for a junior

officer. Marvelous experi-
ence.”

He turned to the wall-screen
and pressed a button. A sys-
tem triagram appeared : eight
luminous green dots arranged
around a larger disk repre-
senting the primary. He
picked up a pointer, indicat-
ing the innermost planet.

“The situation on Adobe is
nearing crisis. The confound-
ed settlers — a mere handful of
them — have managed, as usual,
to stir up trouble with an in-
telligent indigenous life form,
the Jaq. I can't think why
they bother, merely for a few
oases among the endless des-
erts. However I have, at last,
received authorization from
Sector Headquarters to take
certain action.” He swixng

back to face Retief. ‘‘I’m send-
ing you in to handle the situa-
tion, Retief — under sealed or-
ders.” He picked up a fat buff
envelope. “A pity they didn’t
see fit to order the Terrestrial
settlers out weeks ago, as I
suggested. Now it is too late.
I’m expected to produce a mir-
acle— a rapprochement be-
tween Terrestrial and Adoban
and a division of territory.
It’s idiotic. However, failure
would look very bad in my
record, so I shall expect re-
sults.”

He passed the buff envelope
across to Retief.

“I understood that Adobe
was uninhabited,” Retief said,
“until the Terrestrial settlers
arrived.”

“Apparently, that was an
erroneous impression.” Pass-
wyn fixed Retief with a
watery eye. “You’ll follow
your instructions to the letter.
In a delicate situation such as
this, there must be no impul-
sive, impromptu element intro-
duced. This approach has been
worked out^in detail at Sec-
tor. You need merely imple-
ment it. Is that entirely
clear?”

“Has anyone at Headquar-
ters ever visited Adobe?”

“Of course not. They all
hate travel. If there are no
other questions, you’d best be
on your way. The mail run de-
parts the dome in less than an
hour.”

“What’s this native life
form like?” Retief asked, get-
ting to his feet.

“When you get back,” said
Passwyn, “you tell me.”

The mail pilot, a leathery
veteran with quarter-inch
whiskers, spat toward a
stained corner of the compart-
ment, leaned close to the
screen.

“They’s shootin’ goin’ on
down there,” he said. “See
them white puffs over the
edge of the desert?”

“I’m supposed to be pre-
venting the war,” said Retief.
“It looks like I’m a little
late.”

The pilot’s head snapped
around. “War?” he yelped.
“Nobody told me they was a
war goin’ on on ’Dobe. If
that’s what that is, I’m gettin’
out of here.”

“Hold on,” said Retief. “I’ve
got to get down. They won’t
shoot at you.”

“They shore won’t, sonny.
I ain’t givin’ ’em the chance.”
He started punching keys on
the console. Retief reached
out, caught his wrist.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me.
I said I’ve got to get down.”
The pilot plunged against
the restraint, swung a punch
that Retief blocked casually.
“Are you nuts?” the pilot
screeched. “They’s plenty
shootin’ goin’ on fer me to see
it fifty miles out.”

“The mail must go through,
you know.”

“Okay! You’re so dead set
on gettin’ killed, you take the
skiff. I’ll tell ’em to pick up
the remains next trip.’*

by KEITH LAUMER

“You’re a pal. I’ll take your
offer.’'

The pilot jumped to the
lifeboat hatch and cycled it
open. “Get in. We’re closin’
fast. Them birds might take
it into their heads to lob one
this way. . .”

Retief crawled into the nar-
row cockpit of the skiff,
glanced over the controls. The
pilot ducked out of sight,
came back, handed Retief a
heavy old-fashioned power
pistol. “Long as you’re goin’
in, might as well take this.”

“Thanks.” Retief shoved the
pistol in his belt. “I hope
you’re wrong.”

“I’ll see they pick you up
when the shootin’s over — one
way or another.”

The hatch clanked shut. A
moment later there was a jar
as the skiff dropped away,
followed by heavy buffeting
in the backwash from the de-
parting mail boat. Retief
watched the tiny screen, hands
on the manual controls. He
was dropping rapidly: forty
miles, thirty-nine. . .

A crimson blip showed on
the screen, moving out.

Retief felt sweat pop out on
his forehead. The red blip
meant heavy radiation from a
warhead. Somebody was play-
ing around with an outlawed
but by no means unheard of
fission weapon. But maybe it
was just on a high trajectory
and had no connection with
the skiff. . .

Retief altered course to the
south. The blip followed.

He checked instrument
readings, gripped the controls,
watching. This was going to
be tricky. The missile bored
closer. At five miles Retief
threw the light skiff into max-
imum acceleration, straight to-
ward the oncoming bomb.
Crushed back in the padded
seat, he watched the screen,
correcting course minutely.
The proximity fuse should be
set for no more than 1000
yards.

At a combined speed of two
miles per second, the skiff
flashed past the missile, and
Retief was slammed violently
against the restraining har-
ness in the concussion of the
explosion. . .a mile astern, and
harmless.

Then the planetary surface
was rushing up with frighten-
ing speed. Retief shook his
head, kicked in the emergency
retro-drive. Points of light
arced up from the planet face
below. If they were ordinary
chemical warheads the skiff’s
meteor screens should handle
them. The screen flashed bril-
liant white, then went dark.
The skiff flipped on its back.
Smoke filled the tiny com-
partment. There was a series
of shocks, a final bone-shak-
ing concussion, then stillness,
broken by the ping of hot
metal contracting.

COUGHING, Retief disen-
gaged himself from the
shock-webbing. He beat out
sparks in his lap, groped un-
derfoot for the hatch and

RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN

wrenched it open. A wave of
hot jungle air struck him. He
lowered himself to a bed of
shattered foliage, got to his
feet. . .and dropped flat as a
bullet whined past his ear.

He lay listening. Stealthy
movements were audible from
the left.

He inched his way to the
shelter of a broad-boled dwarf
tree. Somewhere a song lizard
burbled. Whining insects cir-
cled, scented alien life, buzzed
off. There was another rustle
of foliage from the under-
brush five yards away. A bush
quivered, then a low bough
dipped.

Retief edged back around
the trunk, eased down behind
a fallen log. A stocky man in
grimy leather shirt and shorts
appeared, moving cautiously, a
pistol in his hand.

As he passed, Retief rose,
leaped the log and tackled
him.

They went down together.
The stranger gave one short
yell, then struggled in silence.
Retief flipped him onto his
back, raised a fist —

“Hey!” the settler yelled.
“You’re as human as I am!”
“Maybe I’ll look better after
a shave,” said Retief. “What’s
the idea of shooting at me?”
“Lemme up. My name’s Pot-
ter. Sorry ’bout that. I figured
it was a Flap-jack boat ; looks
just like ’em. I took a shot
when I saw something move.
Didn’t know it was a Terres-
trial. Who are you ? What you
doin’ here? We’re pretty close

to the edge of the oasis. That’s
Flap- jack country over there.”
He waved a hand toward the
north, where the desert lay.

“I’m glad you’re a poor shot.
That missile was too close for
comfort.”

“Missile, eh? Must be Flap-
jack artillery. We got nothing
like that.”

“I heard there was a full-
fledged war brewing,” said
Retief. “I didn’t expect — ”
“Good!” Potter said. “We
figured a few of you boys
from Ivory would be joining
up when you heard. You are
from Ivory?”

“Yes. I’m—”

“Hey, you must be Lemuel’s
cousin. Good night ! I pretty
near made a bad mistake.
Lemuel’s a tough man to ex-
plain something to.”

1 m —

“Keep your head down.
These damn Flap-jacks have
got some wicked hand weap-
ons. Come on...” He moved
off silently on all fours. Re-
tief followed. They crossed
two hundred yards of rough
country before Potter got to
his feet, took out a soggy ban-
dana and mopped his face.

“You move good for a city
man. I thought you folks on
Ivory just sat under those
domes and read dials. But I
guess bein’ Lemuel’s cousin
you was raised different.”

“As a matter of fact — ”
“Have to get you some real
clothes, though. Those city
duds don’t stand up on ’Dobe.”
Retief looked down at the

by KEITH LAUMER

charred, torn and sweat- .
soaked powder-blue blazer and
slacks.

‘‘This outfit seemed pretty
rough-and-ready back home/’
he said. “But I guess leather
has its points.”

“Let’s get on back to camp.
We’ll just about make it by
sundown. And,* look. Don’t say
anything to Lemuel about me
thinking you were a Flap-
jack.”

“I won’t, but — ”

Potter was on his way, lop-
ing off up a gentle slope. Re-
tief pulled off the sodden
blazer, dropped it over a bush,
added his string tie and fol-
lowed Potter.

4^TJj^E’RE damn glad you’re
here, mister,” said a fat
man with two revolvers belted
across his paunch. “We can
use every hand. We’re in bad
shape. We ran into the Flap-
jacks three months ago and we
haven’t made a smart move
since. First, we thought they
were a native form we hadn’t
run into before. Fact is, one of
the boys shot one, thinkin’ it
was fair game. I guess that
was the start of it.” He stirred
the fire, added a stick.

“And then a bunch of ’em
hit Swazey’s farm here,” Pot-
ter said. “Killed two of his
cattle, and pulled back.”

“I figure they thought the
cows were people,” said Swaz-
ey. “They were out for re-
venge.”

“How could anybody think a
cow was folks?” another man
put in. “They don’t look noth-
in’ like — ”

“Don’t be so dumb, Bert,”
said Swazey. “They’d never
seen Terries before. They
know better now.”

Bert chuckled. “Sure do.
We showed ’em the next time,
didn’t we. Potter? Got four.”

“They walked right up to
my place a couple days after
the first time,” Swazey said,
“We were ready for ’em. Pep-
pered ’em good. They cut and
run.”

“Flopped, you mean. Ugliest
lookin’ critters you ever saw.
Look just like a old piece
of dirty blanket humpin’
around.”

“It’s been goin’ on this way
ever since. They raid and then
we raid. But lately they’ve
been bringing some big stuff
into it. They’ve got some kind
of pint-sized airships and
automatic rifles. We’ve lost
four men now and a dozen
more in the freezer, waiting
for the med ship. We can’t af-
ford it. The colony’s got less
than three hundred able-bod-
ied men.”

“But we’re hanging onto our
farms,” said Potter. “All these
oases are old sea-beds — a mile
deep, solid topsoil. And
there’s a couple of hundred
others we haven’t touched yet.
The Flap-jacks won’t get ’em
while there’s a man alive.”

“The whole system needs
the food we can raise,” Bert
said. “These farms we’re try-

1 1

RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN

ing to start won’t be enough
but they’ll help.”

“We been yellin’ for help
to the CDT, over on Ivory,”
said Potter. “But you know
these Embassy stooges.”

“We heard they were send-
ing some kind of bureaucrat
in here to tell us to get out
and give the oases to the Flap-
jacks,” said Swazey. He tight-
ened his mouth. “We’re wait-
in’ for him. .

“Meanwhile we got rein-
forcements cornin’ up, eh,
boys?” Bert winked at Re-
tief. “We put out the word
back. home. We all got rela-
tives on Ivory and Verde.”
“Shut up, you damn fool!”
a deep voice grated.

“Lemuel !” Potter said. “No-
body else could sneak up on
us like that.”

“If I’d a been a Flap-jack;
I’d of et you alive,” the new-
comer said, moving into the
ring of fire, a tall, broad-faced
man in grimy leather. He eyed
Retief.

“Who’s that?”

“What do ya mean?” Potter
spoke in the silence. “He’s
your cousin. . .”

“He ain’t no cousin of
mine,” Lemuel said slowly. He
stepped to Retief.

. “Who you s p y i n’ for,
stranger?” he rasped.

Retief got to his feet. “i
think I should explain — ”
A short-nosed automatic ap-
peared in Lemuel’s hand, a
clashing note against his
fringed buckskins..

“Skip the talk. I know a
fink when I see one.”

“Just for a change, I’d like
to finish a sentence,” said Re-
tief. “And I suggest you put
your courage tock in your
pocket before it bites you.”
“You talk too damned fancy
to suit me.”

“Maybe. But I’m talking to
suit me. Now, for the last time,
put it away.”

Lemuel stared at Retief.
“You givin’ me orders. . . ?”
Retief’s left fist shot out,
smacked Lemuel’s face dead
center. He stumbled back,
blood starting from his nose;
the pistol fired into the dirt
as he dropped it. He caught
himself, jumped for Retief. . .
and met a straight right that
snapped him onto his back:
out cold.

“Wow!” said Potter. “The
stranger took Lem... in two
punches !”

“One,” said Swazey. “That
first one was just a love tap.”
Bert froze. “Hark, boys,” he
whispered. In the sudden si-
lence a night lizard called.
Retief strained, heard noth-
ing. He narrowed his eyes,
peered past the fire —

With a swift lunge he
seized up the bucket of drink-
ing water, dashed it over the
fire, threw himself flat. He
heard the others hit the dirt a
split second behind him.

“You move fast for a city
man,” breathed Swazey beside
him. “You see pretty good too.
We’ll split and take ’em from
two sides. You and Bert from

by KEITH LAUMER

the left, me and Potter from
the right/'

'^No," said Retief. ‘^You
wait here. I'm going out
alone."

"What's the idea! . .

"Later. Sit tight and keep
your eyes open/' Retief took
a bearing on a treetop faintly
visible against the sky and
started forward.

Five minutes' stealthy prog-
ress brought him to a slight
rise of ground. With infinite
caution he raised himself,
risking a glance over an out-
cropping of rock.

The stunted trees ended
just ahead. Beyond, he could
make out the dim contour of
rolling desert. Flap-jack coun-
try. He got to his feet, clam-
bered over the stone — still hot
after a day of tropical heat —
and moved forward twenty
yards. Around him he saw
nothing but drifted sand, pale-
ly visible in the starlight, and
the occasional shadow of jut-
ting shale slabs. Behind him
the jungle was still.

He sat down on the ground
to wait.

It was ten minutes before a
movement caught his eye.
Something had separated it-
self from a dark mass of stone,
glided across a few yards of
open ground to another shel-
ter. Retief watched. Minutes
passed. The shape moved
again, slipped into a shadow
ten feet distant. Retief felt
the butt of the power pistol
with his elbow. His guess had

better be right this time . . .

There was a sudden rasp,
like leather against concrete,
and a flurry of sand as the
Flap-jack charged.

Retief rolled aside, then
lunged, threw his weight on
the flopping Flap-jack — a
yard square, three inches
thick at the center and all
muscle. The ray-like creature
heaved up, curled backward,
its edge rippling, to stand on
the flattened rim of its encir-
cling sphincter. It scrabbled
with prehensile fringe-tenta-
cles for a grip on Retief's
shoulders. He wrapped his
arms around the alien and
struggled to his feet. The
thing was heavy. A hundred
pounds at least. Fighting as
it was, it seemed more like
five hundred.

The Flap-jack reversed its
tactics, went limp. Retief
grabbed, felt a thumb slip into
an orifice —

The alien went wild. Retief
hung on, dug the thumb in
deeper.

"Sorry, fellow," he muttered
between clenched teeth. "Eye-
gouging isn't gentlemanly, but
it's effective. . . "

The Flap-jack fell still, only
its fringes rippling slowly.
Retief relaxed the pressure of
his thumb; the alien gave a
tentative jerk; the thumb dug
in.

The alien went limp again,
waiting.

*‘Now we understand each
other," said Retief. "Take me
to your leader.*'

RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN

Twenty minutes’ walk
into the desert brought Re-
tief to a low rampart of thorn
branches: the Flap-jacks’ out-
er defensive line against Ter-
ry forays. It would be as good
a place as any to wait for the
move by the Flap-jacks. He
sat down and eased the weight
of his captive off his back, but
kept a firm thumb in place. If
his analysis of the situation
was correct, a Flap-jack picket
should be along before too
long. . .

A penetrating beam of red
light struck Retief in the face,
blinked off. He got to his feet.
The captive Flap-jack rippled
its fringe in an agitated way.
Retief tensed his thumb in the
eye-socket.

‘‘Sit tight,” he said. “Don’t
try to do anything hasty...’*
His remarks were falling on
deaf ears— or no ears at all —
but the thumb spoke as loudly
as words.

There was a slither of sand.
Another. He became aware of
a ring of presences drawing
closer.

Retief tightened his grip on
the alien. He could see a dark
shape now, looming up almost
to his own six-three. It looked
like the Flap-jacks came in all
sizes.

A low rumble sounded, like
a deep-throated growl. It
strummed on, faded out. Re-
tief cocked his head, frown-
ing.

“Try it two octaves higher,”
he said.

••Awwrrp ! Sorry, Is that

better?” a clear voice came
from the darkness.

“That’s fine,” Retief said.
“I’m here to arrange a prisoner
exchange.”

“Prisoners? But we have no
prisoners.”

“Sure you have. Me. Is it
a deal?”

“Ah, yes, of course. Quite
equitable. What guarantees do
you require?”

“The word of a gentleman is
sufficient.” Retief released
the alien. It flopped once, dis-
appeared into the darkness.

“If you’d care to accompany
me to our headquarters,” the
voice said, “we can discuss our
mutual concerns in comfort.”

“Delighted.”

Red lights blinked briefly.
Retief glimpsed a gap in the
thorny barrier, stepped
through it. He followed dim
shapes across warm sand to a
low cave-like entry, faintly lit
with a reddish glow.

“I must apologize for the
awkward design of our com-
fort-dome,” said the voice.
“Had we known we would be
honored by a visit — ”

“Think nothing of it,” Re-
tief said. “We diplomats are
trained to crawl.”

Inside, with knees bent and
head ducked under the five-
foot ceiling, Retief looked
around at the walls of pink-
toned nacre, a floor like bur-
gundy-colored glass spread
with silken rugs and a low
table of polished red granite
that stretched down the center
of the spacious room, set out

by KEITH LAUMER

with silver dishes and rose-
crystal drinking-tubes.

Ill

CCT ET me congratulate you/'

-L^the voice said.

Retief turned. An immense
Flap-jack, hung with crimson
trappings, rippled at his side.
The voice issued from a disk
strapped to its back. '*You
fight well. I think we will find
in each other worthy adver-
saries."

“Thanks. I'm sure the test
would be interesting, but I'm
hoping we can avoid it."

“Avoid it?" Retief heard a
low humming coming from the
speaker ill the silence. “Well,
let us dine," the mighty Flap-
jack said at last. “We can re-
solve these matters later. I am
called Hoshick of the Mosaic
of the Two Dawns."

“I'm Retief." Hoshick wait-
ed expectantly, “...of the
Mountain of Red Tape," Re-
tief added.

“Take place, Retief," said
Hoshick. “I hope you won’t
find our rude couches uncom-
fortable." Two other large
Flap-jacks came into the room,
communed silently with Ho-
shick. “Pray forgive our lack
of translating devices," he
said to Retief. “Permit me to
introduce my colleagues..."

A small Flap-jack rippled
the chamber bearing on its
back a silver tray laden with
aromatic food. The waiter
served the four diners, filled
the drinking tubes with yel-

low wine. It smelled good.

“I trust you’ll find these
dishes palatable,” said Ho-
shick. “Our metabolisms are
much alike, I believe." Retief
tried the food. It had a deli-
cious nut-like flavor. The
wine was indistinguishable
from Chateau d'Yquem.

“It was an u n e x p e c t e d
pleasure to encounter your
party here,” said Hoshick. “I
confess at first we took you
for an indigenous earth-grub-
bing form, but we were soon
disabused of that notion." He
raised a tube, manipulating it
deftly with his fringe tenta-
cles. Retief returned the sa-
lute and drank.

“Of course," Hoshick con-
tinued, “as soon as we realized
that you were sportsmen like
ourselves, we attempted to
make amends by providing a
bit of activity for you. We’ve
ordered out our heavier equip-
ment and a few trained skir-
mishers and soon we’ll be able
to give you an adequate show.
Or so I hope.”

“Additional skirmishers?"
said Retief. “How many, if
you don't mind my asking?"

“For the moment, perhaps
only a few hundred. There-
after. . .well, I'm sure we can
arrange that between us. Per-
sonally T would prefer a con-
test of limited scope. No nu-
clear or radiation-effect weap-
ons. Such a bore, screening the
spawn for deviations. Though
I confess we've come upon
some remarkably useful
sports. The rangerform such

RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN

as you made captive, for ex-
ample. Simple-minded, of
course, but a fantastically
keen tracker.”

“Oh, by all means,” Retief
said. “No atomics. As you
pointed out, spawn-sorting is
a nuisance, and then too, it’s
wasteful of troops.”

“Ah, well, they are after all
expendable. But we agree : no
atomics. -Have you tried the
ground-gwack eggs? Rather
a specialty of my Mosaic. , .”
“Delicious,” said Retief. “I
wonder. Have you considered
eliminating weapons altogeth-
er?”

A scratchy sound issued
from the disk. “Pardon
my laughter,” Hoshick said,
“but surely you jest?”

“As a matter of fact,” said
Retief, “we ourselves seldom
use weapons.”

“I seem to recall that our
first contact of skirmishforms
involved the use of a weapon
by one of your units.”

“My apologies,” said Retief.
“The — ah — the skirmishform
failed to recognize that he was
dealing with a sportsman.”
“Still, now that we have
commenced so merrily with
weapons. . ” Hoshick sig-
nalled and the servant refilled
tubes.

“There is an aspect I haven’t
yet mentioned,” Retief went
on. “I hope you won’t take this
personally, but the fact is, our
skirmishforms think of weap-
ons as son^ething one em-
ploys only in dealing with

certain specific life-forms.”
“Oh? Curious. What forms
are those?”

“Vermin. Or Varmints’ as
some call them. Deadly antag-
onists, but lacking in caste. I
don’t want our skirmishforms
thinking of such worthy ad-
versaries as yourself as var-
mints.”

“Dear me ! I hadn’t realized,
of course. Most considerate of
you to point it out.” Hoshick
clucked in dismay. “I see that
skirmishforms are much the
same among you as with us:
lacking in perception.” He
laughed scratchily. “Imagine
considering us as — what was
the word? — varmints.”

“Which brings us to the
crux of the matter. You see,
we’re up against a serious
problem with regard to skirm-
ishforms. A low birth rate.
Therefore we’ve reluctantly
taken to substitutes for the
mass actions so dear to the
heart of the sportsman. We’ve
attempted to put an end to
these contests altogether...”
Hoshick coughed explosive-
ly, sending a spray of wine
into the air. “What are you
saying?” he gasped. “Are you
proposing that Hoshick of the
Mosaic of the Two Dawns
abandon honor. . . ?”

“Sir!” said Retief sternly.
“You forget yourself. I, Re-
tief of the Red Tape Moun-
tain, make an alternate pro-
posal more in keeping with
the newest sporting princi-
ples.”

“New?” cried Hoshick. “My

by KEITH LAUMER

dear Retief, what a pleasant
surprise! I*m enthralled with
novel modes. One gets so out
of touch. Do elaborate.”

‘^It’s quite simple, really.
Each side selects a representa-
tive and the two individuals
settle the issue between them.”
”1. . .um. . . fear I don’t un-
derstand. What possible sig-
nificance could one attach to
the activities of a couple of
random skirmishforms?”

haven’t made myself
clear,” said Retief. He took a
sip of wine. ”We don’t in-
volve the skirmishforms at all.
That’s quite passe.”

“You don’t mean. . . ?”
“That’s right. You and me.”

OUTSIDE on the starlit
sand Retief tossed aside
the power pistol, followed it
with the leather shirt Swazey
had lent him. By the faint
light he could just make out
the towering figure of the
Flap-jack rearing up before
him, his trappings gone. A si-
lent rank of Flap-jack retain-
ers were grouped behind him.

“I fear I must lay aside the
translator now, Retief,” said
Hoshick. He sighed and rip-
pled his fringe tentacles, “My
spawn-fellows will never cred-
it this. Such a curious turn
fashion has taken. How much
more pleasant it is to observe
the action of the skirmish-
forms from a distance.”

“I suggest we use Tennessee
rules,” said Retief. “They’re
very liberal. Biting, gouging,
stomping, kneeing and of

course choking, as well as the
usual punching, shoving and
kicking.”

“Hmmm. These gambits
seem geared to forms employ-
ing rigid endo-skeletons ; I
fear I shall be at a disadvan-
tage.”

“Of course,” Retief said, “if
you’d prefer a more plebeian
type of contest. . .”

“By no means. But perhaps
we could rule out tentacle-
twisting, just to even it.”

“Very well. Shall we be-
gin?”

With a rush Roshick threw
himself at Retief, who ducked,
whirled, and leaped on the
Flap-jack’s back. . .and felt
himself flipped clear by a
mighty ripple of the alien’s
slab-like body. Retief rolled
aside as Hoshick turned on
him; he jumped to his feet and
threw a right hay-maker to
Hoshick’s mid-section. The
alien whipped his left fringe
around in an arc that connect-
ed with Relief’s jaw, sent him
spinning onto his back... and
Hoshick’s weight struck him.

Retief twisted, tried to roll.
The flat body of the alien
blanketed him. He worked an
arm free, drumming blows on
the leathery back. Hoshick
nestled closer.

Retief’s air was running out.
He heaved up against the
smothering weight. Nothing
budged.

It was like burial under a
dump-truck-load of concrete.

He remembered the ranger-
form lit had captured. The

RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN

sensitive orifice had been
placed ventrally, in what
would be the thoracic area. . .

He groped, felt tough hide
set with horny granules. He
would be missing skin tomor-
row... if there was a tomor-
row. His thumb found the ori-
fice and probed.

The Flap-jack recoiled. Re-
tief held fast, probed deeper,
groping with the other hand.
If the alien were bilaterally
symmetrical there would be a
set of ready made hand-
holds. . .

HERE were.

Retief dug in and the
Flap-jack writhed, pulled
away. Retief held on, scram-
bled to his feet, threw his
weight against the alien and
fell on top of him, still goug-
ing. Hoshick rippled his
fringe wildly, flopped in ter-
ror, then went limp.

Retief relaxed, released his
hold and got to his feet,
breathing hard. Hoshick
humped himself over onto his
ventral side, lifted and moved
gingerly over to the sidelines.
His retainers came forward,
assisted him into his trap-
pings, strapped on the trans-
lator. He sighed heavily, ad-
justed the volume.

‘‘There is much to be said
for the old system,’' he said.
“What a burden one’s sports-
manship places on one at
times.”

“Great sport, wasn’t it?”
said Retief. “Now, I know
you'll be eager to continue. If

you’ll just wait while I run
back and fetch some of our
gougerforms — ”

“May hide-ticks devour the
gougerforms!” Hoshick bel-
lowed. “You’ve given me such
a sprong-ache as I’ll remember
each spawning-time for a
year.”

“Speaking of hide-ticks,”
said Retief, “we’ve developed
a biterform — ”

“Enough!” Hoshick roared,
so loudly that the translator
bounced on his hide. “Sudden-
ly I yearn for the crowded
yellow sands of Jaq. I had
hoped. . .” He broke off, drew
a rasping breath. “I had
hoped, Retief,” he said, speak-
ing sadly now, “to find a new
land here where I might plan
my own Mosaic, till these
alien sands and bring forth
such a crop of paradise-lichen
as should glut the markets of
a hundred worlds. But my
spirit is not equal to the pros-
pect of biterforms and gouger-
forms without end. I am
shamed before you. . .”

“To tell you the truth, I’m
old-fashioned myself. I’d rath-
er watch the action from a
distance too.”

“But surely your spawn-fel-
lows would never condone
such an attitude.”

“My spawn-fellows aren’t
here. And besides, didn’t I
mention it? No one who’s real-
ly in the know would think of
engaging in competition by
mere combat if there were any
other way. Now, you men-
tioned tilling the sand, raising

by KEITH LAUMER

^ '•%.^'iiri v^i ft y

RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN

lichens — things like that — ”
*^That on which we dined
but now/' said Hoshick, ‘‘and
front which the wine is made,"
*‘The big news in fashion-
able diploniacy today is farm-
ing competition. Now, if you'd
like to take these deserts and
raise lichen, we'll promise to
stick to the oases and ^
vegetables."

Hoshick curled his back in
attention. “Retief, you’re
quite serious? You would
leave all the fair sand hills to
us?"

"The whole works, Hoshick.
I'll take the oases.”

Hoshick rippled his fringes
ecstatically. “Once again you
have outdone me, Retief," he
cried. “This time, in generos-
ity.”

“We’ll talk over the details
later. I'm sure we can establish
a set of rules that will satisfy
all parties. Now I’ve got to get
back. I think some of the gou-
gerforms are waiting to see
me."

IT was nearly dawn when Re-
tief gave the whistled sig-
nal he had agreed on with
Potter, then rose and walked
into the camp circle. Swazey
stood up.

“There you are," he said.
“We been wonderin’ whether
to go out after you."

Lemuel came forward, one
eye black to the cheekbone.
He held out a raw-boned hand.
“Sorry I jumped you, stranger.

Tell you the truth, I thought
you w^ some kind of stool-
pigeon from the CDT."

Bert came up behind Lem-
uel. “How do you know he
ain’t, Lemuel?" hex said. “May-
be he—"

Lemuel floored Bert with a
backward sweep of his arm.
“Next cotton-picker says some
embassy Johnny can cool me
gets worse’n that."

“Tell me," said Retief.
“How are you boys fixed for
wine?"

“Wine? Mister, we been
livin’ on stump water for a
year now. ’Dobe’s fatal to the
kind of bacteria it takes to
ferment likker."

“Try this." Retief handed
over a sqat jug. Swazey drew
the cork, sniffed, drank and
passed it to Lemuel.

“Mister, where’d you get
that?"

“The Flap-jacks make it.
Here’s another question for
you: Would you concede a
share in this planet to the
Flap-jacks in return for a
peace guarantee?"

At the end of a half hour of
heated debate Lemuel turned
to Retief. “We’ll make any
reasonable deal," he said. “I
guess they got as much right
here as we have. I think we’d
agree to a fifty-fifty split.
That’d give about a hundred
and fifty oases to each side.”

“What would you say to
keeping all the oases and giv-
ing them the desert?"

Lemuel reached for the
wine jug, eyes on Retief.

by KEITH LAUMER

“Keep talkin’, mister,” he said.
“I think you got yourself a
deal.”

CONSUL Passwyn glanced
up at Retief, went on per-
using a paper.

‘‘Sit down, Retief,” he said
absently. “I thought you were
over on Pueblo, or Mud-flat,
or whatever they call that des-
ert.”

‘‘Fm back.”

Passwyn eyed him sharply.
‘‘Well, well, what is it you
need, man? Speak up. Don’t
expect me to request any mili-
tary assistance, no matter how
things are. .

Retief passed a bundle of
documents across the desk.
‘‘Here’s the Treaty. And a
Mutual Assistance Pact dec-
laration and a trade agree-
ment.”

“Eh?” Passwyn picked up
the papers, riffled through

them. He leaned back in his
chair, beamed.

“Well, Retief. Expeditious-
ly handled.” He stopped,
blinked at Retief. “You seem
to have a bruise on your jaw.
I hope you’ve been conducting
yourself as befits a member
of the Embassy staff.”

“I attended a sporting
event,” Retief said. “One of
the players got a little excit-
ed.”

“Well. . .it’s one of the haz-
ards of the profession. One
must pretend an interest in
such matters.” Passwyn rose,
extended a hand. “You’ve
done well, my boy. Let this
teach you the value of follow-
ing instructions to the letter.”

Outside, by the hall inciner-
ator drop, Retief paused long
enough to take from his brief-
case a large buff envelope,
still sealed, and drop it in the
slot. end

★ ★★★★★★★ ★★★★★★★★

Coming in the July issue of If —

THE CHEMICALLY PURE WARRIORS

A Complete Short Interplanetary Novel
by Allen Kim Lang

Plus novelettes and short stories by Keith Laumer, Cordwainer
Smith, Bryce Walton, C. C. MacApp and many others. July is-
sue of IF on sale May 10th — ask your newsdealer to reserve
your copy now.

RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN

IF • Short Story

JEHN Dofan was a very hu-
man-looking and highly in-
telligent young man, but some-
times he did not show good
sense. Any young man might
meet a girl night after night
in an apple orchard, but Dofan
had to do it in time of war,
behind enemy lines, with the
daughter of the mayor. On
top of that he had to try to
pry information out of her.

Even this might have been
all right if Dofan had used a
little more sense. After four
consecutive nights of press-
ings and squeezings and heavy
breathings, one does not
maintain a stony silence when
a girl like Betty Fuller nes-
tles up closer and says, ‘"We
will be so happy together."’
The situation swiftly deterio-

by THEODORE L. THOMAS

rated after that. He wound up
under arrest.

Flung into a root cellar,
Jehn Dofan underwent a short
but intense period of ques-
tioning by three burly sol-
diers, aided by the butt end of
their flintlock rifles and di-
rected by a second lieutenant
bent on promotion. Dofan told
them nothing. But it did not
matter. As the soldiers left,
the second lieutenant said,
drawing himself to attention,
“You hang at dawn, scum. We
know how to treat spies.”

For the first time Dofan
saw that he was in trouble.

Betty Fuller rushed in as
the soldiers went out. She
flung herself on Dofan and
covered his bloodied face with
kisses and wept into the hoi-

THE SPY

He knew how to serve his people
and make his name immortal.

It was easy. He just had to die!

low of his neck. “My darling/'
she wailed, “what have I done
to you?"

With this to work on, Do-
fan might have extricated him-
self even then, for Betty Full-
er’s father was the mayor,
and a friendly mayor wields
much influence even with the
military if he puts his mind
to it. But Dofan, although
very human-looking and high-
ly intelligent, did not show
good sense for the second
time in the same night.

He looked at Betty Fuller
coldly and said, “You’ve done
enough. Why don’t you let me
alone?"

Her eyes widened in disbe-
lief and then flashed in hatred.
She turned and tapped calmly
on the door, and the soldiers
let her out.

Dawn was dose, and Do-
fan had no time to lose.
He went to a corner of the
root cellar and listened to
make certain no one was com-
ing. With his right thumb he
probed deep up under his
right jaw. He found the tiny
button imbedded there, and he
pushed it and held it.

He said softly, “Jehn Do-
fan calling Base. Jehn Dofan
calling. . .’’

“We have you, Dofan.
Talk."

“I'm captured, heavily
guarded. They plan to hang
me at dawn, less than an hour.
Condition appears desperate.
I need help."

“Will this rescue constitute

a major interference with the
natives? And, if so, are you
willing to stand court-mar-
tial?"

“Yes," said Dofan. “I be-
lieve it will require major in-
terference, and I am willing to
stand court-martial."

“Stand by for instructions."

Dofan removed his thumb
and paced back and forth in
the root cellar in the candle-
light.

Now that he had committed
himself, he was a little sorry.
But there seemed no other
way out. This would spoil a
perfect . record here on the
planet Earth. Betty Fuller
had succeeded in ruining him.
He would be drummed out of
the Controllers, and she and
the other Earth people did not
even know such an organiza-
tion existed. There would
come a time when he could. . .

A series of sharp buzzes
echoed inside his head. It
startled him; he had not ex-
pected his instructions so
soon. He went to the corner
and pressed the switch under
his jaw and said, “Jehn Do-
fan."

“This is Charn Dofan. How
are you, brother?"

Dofan felt his breath catch
in his throat, and for a mo-
ment he could not speak. A
great feeling of relief swept
over him. Charn Dofan was
here, his older brother, come
to him in a time of trouble as
always.

He said, “Cham, it is good
to hear your voice. Where

THE SPY

arc you calling from, broth-
er?’’

‘‘About a mile away. I com-
mand a troop of cavalry sta-
tioned in Brooklyn. I heard
your call to Base and came
out. Are you well?”

‘‘Very well, brother. And
you?”

“Very well.”

A silence fell. The silence
rested uncomfortably and
strangely with Jehn Dofan.
There had never been any
strained silences between him
and his brother. Something
was wrong. He asked, “Is all
well at home?”

There was a perceptible
pause before the answer came.
“Our parents and our family
are all in good health.” Again
the silence.

Jehn Dofan said, “Tell me
what is wrong, Charn. Base
will call soon to tell me of
the rescue procedure. What
is it?”

A pause, then Charn Dofan
began to speak. “Our Islands
at home are ready to demand
full statehood. The Main-
landers are trying to find
some way to keep us out. A
vote will be taken next week.
As things stand now, we can
just about muster the neces-
sary strength, but it won’t
take much to change things.
We won’t get another chance
for a long while. We’ll have
to keep paying the taxes, let-
ting them bleed us white, con-
trolling our production.”

Jehn Dofan nodded in un-
derstanding. “Yes, our people

have worked toward state-
hood for a long time. I hope
we make it.”

Again the silence. Jehn
Dofan was puzzled.

He said, “What is wrong?
What can we do about it from
here?”

This time his brother’s
words poured out,
wrenched from the heart.
“Base commander is a Main-
lander! He will have to inter-
fere openly with the natives to
rescue you, and this will re-
flect on all the Islanders. No
question about it, Jehn. It
will tip the vote the wrong
way. Your rescue will be an
international incident back
home.”

Jehn Dofan shook his head
regretfully and said, “I sup-
pose you are right. But I
don’t know how we can stop
him from here. We are...”
And then he understood.

He felt sick to his stomach,
and he began to perspire. His
breath caught in his throat.
His heart pounded. He re-
fused to accept the full reali-
zation— kept thrusting it out
of his mind — but it kept in-
truding.

His brother continued,
“Base will be calling in a few
moments. I will be nearby, no
- matter what happens. Call on
me for anything. I will abide
by your decision. Good-by.”
The radio fell silent before
Jehn Dofan could speak.

He was alone in the cellar.
He slumped to the dirt, too
weak to pace.

by THEODORE L. THOMAS

He was frightened. He had
not seriously considered the
possibility of dying on this
planet. Yet here he was, in a
position where his own broth-
er had to point out the de-
sirability of letting himself be
executed instead of rescued.
The Islands needed a hero
now, not a goat. He needed
time to think this out.

But there was no time. The
buzzer sounded inside his
head. He jumped. He went to
the corner and pushed the
switch and spoke.

‘^Base commander,” was the
response, and without further
preamble the commander
launched into a description
of the rescue plans. In spite
of the turmoil that raged in
his mind, Dofan recognized
that the plans were more vio-
lent and complex than they
needed to be. It was apparent
that the commander was seiz-
ing the opportunity to make
trouble. The recognition
steeled his mind.

‘‘There will be no rescue.
Commander., I have decided
that I do not want to be the
cause of such open interfer-
ence.”

The commander started to
speak, but then fell silent, rec-
ognizing the impropriety of
arguing with Dofan about
such a matter. But his fury
was apparent. Feeling it. Do-
fan said, “There is no need
to talk further. Commander. I
sign off now. Do not risk open
interference by contacting me
again. Good-by, sir.”

THE SPY

They came for him short-
ly. They marched him be-
tween two colunms of red-
coated soldiers to the slow
beat of muffled drums. He
climbed the gallows steps in
the bright morning sunshine
and looked out over the Long
Island countryside. As they
adjusted the noose around his
neck, his eyes swept the as-
sembled crowd. There to the
left, among the others, stood
a tall, black-haired figure in
a red coat. The eyes and nose
were the same as his eyes and
nose, and he looked at his
brother and smiled.

A few feet from his brother,
all unknowing, stood Betty
Fuller, and for a wild moment
he considered calling out to
her for help. He saw the sneer
on her face, and he was im-
mediately ashamed of his mo-
mentary weakness. He gritted
his teeth and tried to think of
a way to die well.

He looked up to the sky,
in a westerly direction. He
could not see it, for it was
light-years away, but he knew
it was there. A lovely island
on another planet, bathed in
warm breezes, the place where
his people were.

His executioners asked him,
“Do you have anything to say,
schoolmaster?”

Then he knew what to do
to swing the vote; it came to
him all of a sudden. With his
face raised toward home, he
said, “I only regret that I have
but one life to lose for my
-country.” END

IF • Novelette

Remorseless? Not a bit of
it, no matter what they say!
Here’s the genuine, inside,
light-hearted story of

DEATH AND TAXES

by H. A. HARTZELL illustrated by dyas

44TT’S a crime, Your Honor,”

-I said the young man with
the dreamy eyes and paint-
smeared sport-shirt. ”The
Council not only proposes
tearing down this picturesque
landmark, but would thereby
destroy the home of our only
local ghost.”

“Really, Mr. Masterson!”
The mayor smiled to show he
knew Jerry Masterson was
only kidding, then brandished
a State Highway Commission
report recommending that the
antiquated Waukeena Light-
house be demolished. “Mr.
Masterson, we respect your
feelings as an artist, and are
well aware of the local super-
stition regarding the ghost of
Captain MacGreggor, but this
building is over seventy years
old and needs expensive re-
pairs. The financial burden is
too great for our metropolis of

less than fifteen hundred
souls. The State has dis-
avowed responsibility, and — ”
“Your Honor!”

“The chair recognizes Mr.
Higgins.”

“As president of the Histor-
ical Soci I wish to state we
vigorously oppose the wreck-
ing of this building. One by
one, our landmarks have fall-
en. Are we to hand down to
our children a community
without pride of ancestry?
Are we — ?”

“Your Honor,” bellowed an-
other voice. “As a member of
the Taxpayers League. . .”

For two hours, sentiment
battled hotly with double-en-
try bookkeeping. Then the
City Council expressed its
deep regrets to the Historical
Society — and unanimously ac-
cepted the bid of Sam Schultz
Salvage Company. Mr. Schultz

handed the Council his check
for five hundred dollars and
was authorized to begin
wrecking immediately.

‘‘First thing tomorrow
morning,” Mr. Schultz prom-
ised.

Tomorrow morning! As
he walked into the spring
night, toward the old, decay-
ing house where he lived
alone, Jerry Masterson felt
sadness. His own difficulties
had prepared him to admit
life was geared to financial
considerations. But things had
come to a pretty pass when
even a ghost was not safe
from dollars and cents. “Poor
Captain Wully,” he said with^
out realizing he spoke aloud.

“Aye, aye,’’ said a voice.
“Poor Wully MacGreggor. As
a ghost in good standing, a
dues-paying member of As-
modeus Local of the United
Lighthouse Haunters of
America, Wully never done
nothin’ to deserve this. Evict-
ed I Got a smoke, matey?”
Jerry Masterson did a dou-
ble-take. Out of reflex cour-
tesy, he proffered a cigarette
and was about to strike a
match when his companion
reached slightly to the left,
where several coals glowed in
mid-air. Selecting one, the
stranger said, “Thank you.
Junior. You can go now.” He
turned, lit Jerry’s cigarette
and his own.

“All right, joker,” said Jer-
ry. “Show me how you did it
and I’ll show you a couple of

DEATH AND TAXES

card tricks and a disappearing
penny routine.^

“Later,” said the stranger.
“Right now, matey, my sails is
draggin’ and I need spiritual
reinforcement— 1 i q u i d. And
you're buying.^

“There’s a fifth of Scotch in
my studio, but I’m not pouring
for any phony tricksters. I’ve
been saving it till I sold a
canvas.”

“Scotch,” sighed the strang-
er ecstatically. “Shades of
the Loch Ness Monster! Quit
scratching, Gertrude.”

“Gertrude?”

“My cat — she’s black. A
handsome beastie if you over-
look a hole in her head. A
twenty-two caliber hole. Ger-
trude, materialize for the nice
man.”

Nothing happened, and Jer-
ry diplomatically sought to
ease a situation that was
rapidly becoming embarrass-
ing. “Maybe she’s bashful.”

“Not Gertrude. Just temper-
amental. She could materialize
if she wanted to. She doesn’t
want to. Now take Junior. . .”

“Junior?”

“He’s the conscientious
type. Tries too hard, poor
boy.”

“About that Scotch,” said
Jerry. “You don’t think may-
be a couple of cups of black
coffee. .

The stranger’s face regis-
tered horror — and trust be-
trayed. “For shame, laddie. To
be insulted in my darkest
hour! Me, Captain Wully
MacGreggor !”

“Sure. You’re Wully Mac-
Greggor — and I’m Napoleon.”
“Watch.”

There was nothing to watch.
The stranger had disappeared.
A disem^died voice said,
“Now about that Scotch? If
Waukeena light is being torn
down tomorrow, I’ll be home-
less. I’ve got a lot of haunting
to do in the little time that’s
left. And here we stand, wag-
gin’ our jaws.”

Jerry’s first impulse was to
run like hell. “But I don’t be-
lieve in ghosts!” His voice
sounded.

“Of course you do. If you

didn’t, you couldn’t have seen
>*

me.

He’d heard of self-hypnosis
—apparently the session with
the Mayor had upset him. “All
right, so you’re Wully Mac-
Greggor. Why pick on me?”
“Because I like you,” said
the ghost. “You said a kind
word for me to the City Coun-
cil and I’d like to do some-
thing nice for you.”

“If you can’t help yourself,
I don’t see how you’re going
to be much help to me, but
what’ve I got to lose?” He
was too numb to worry fur-
ther. Ghosts, yet. . . !

Next morning, Jerry Mas-
terson awoke with a hang-
over. He dimly remembered
floating lights, red, yellow,
blue and green. He remem-
bered Captain Wully scaring
a couple of lovers with noises
the young lady described as
“something like bagpipes in

an echo chamber.” And he
seemed to remember that, to-
ward the end of the evening,
Gertrude had deigned to ma-
terialize— along with a head-
less black ox and a white stag.

He shook his head and
reached for the aspirin. “As
of now,” he promised himself,
“I’m on the wagon.” He
seemed to recall a snake too, a
seven-headed snake with a
gleaming carbuncle in the
middle head. Permanently on
the wagon! A scraping noise
came from above. He listened.
The noise occurred again. It
seemed to emanate from the
tower room on the third floor.
He raced up the winding Vic-
torian staircase, on up the nar-
row stairs to the attic, and
stopped.

From behind the tower
room door, came thin, eerie
skirling of bagpipes.

“Hey, you in there,” he
called.

“Matey!” boomed Captain
Wully’s voice. “Come on in.”

Captain Wully was seated
on an old sea-chest, the bag-
pipes still tucked under his
arm. “Hope my practicing
didn’t disturb you. I play sec-
ond bagpipe in the banshee
band.”

“But the scraping noise. .

“My sea-chest. I had a lit-
tle trouble getting you home
by cockcrow, and I had to
move the sea-chest on over-
time. I want to say right now
it was right decent of you to
offer me a home on such short
acquaintance. I appreciate it,

by H. a: HAFITZCilL

and I promise to show my — **
-‘Look/^ said Jerry. ‘‘All
this time I was being so big-
hearted, did I also say I was
going to have to sell the house
for non-payment of taxes?”
“You didn’t. If I’d a-known
that, I’d put you wise to grab-
bing Celeste’s carbuncle. It’s
goc^ luck.”

“It didn’t bring you any
luck.”

“I’m not eligible. Employ-
ees, relatives etc.”

“Why can’t I get it now?”
“Too late. Celeste only ma-
terializes once every seven
years. Those canvases you
mentioned. For sale?”

“No bidders, and the critics
all agree. Competent drafts-
manship, highly finished tech-
nique— ^but carefully uni-
maginative, middle-class.”
“The pictures — where are
they now?”

“Downstairs. I was going to
crate them today, and send
them to the Art Festival at
Northport, but I’ve got the
shakes too bad.”

Captain Wully pushed back
the tarn on his head, scratched
his balding dome. “I’ve got it.
You catch yourself a nap,
matey. I’ll crate the pictures
for you and batten down the
hatches all nice an’ ship-
shape.”

JERRY Masterson, when he
draped himself over the
bumpy carvings on the studio
love seat, intended to take
only a quick forty winks. But
the morning was well spent

DEATH AND TAXES

when he awakened, stiff and
cramped. Two sturdy crates
stood near the door and, from
the skylight end of the studio,
wafted a rich fragrance of
latakia. Captain Wully drew
deeply on a Scotch briar filled
with Jerry’s private blend of
tobacco, waved his pipe to-
ward the easel and said, “A
right bonnie lass, matey. Your
betrothed?”

Jerry shook his head dole-
fully. “Her family are Cov-
ered Wagon. You’ve no idea
what that means in a small
town like this. My uncle lived
here fifteen years and was
still a ‘newcomer’ when he
died and left me the house.
I’ve been here two years, but
that’s a Johnny-come-lately to
the Higginses. Her name’s
Heather, and I doubt if she
knows I’m alive.”

Captain Wully twirled his
mustache, which curled lux-
uriantly at either end and was
of an improbable shade Jerry
classified as Hunter’s Pink. So
was his beard. “What did you
say her name was?”

“Heather Higgins.”

“You sighed the second time
* you said it, too. I just wanted
to be sure.”

Jerry crossed to the unfin-
ished canvas. “Hair like sun-
shine on slightly oxidized
copper. Eyes blue like the sea
where it meets the horizon on
a summer day.”

Gertrude!** yelled Captain
Wully.

From the turbulence of the
air current which marked Ger-

trade’s passing, Jerry decided
the invisible cat had been in a
hurry.

‘‘And who are you, and
what are you doing here?”
Captain Wully yelled at a
second slipstream.

Distinctly audible was a
high pitched caterwauling. In
addition, there was a sound
that made Jerry’s curly hair
crawl — the baying of a wolf?

“I better look into this,”
Captain Wully muttered and
dashed outside. As he reached
the doorway, his figure melt-
ed into transparency, then into
air.

Jerry loaded the crated
paintings into his car and
took them to the express of-
fice. They wouldn’t sell — they
never did. But he couldn’t af-
ford to pass up the chance
that they might.

When he returned home,
there was no sign of Captain
Wully, only a few paper can-
dy wrappers on the floor. He
started to pick them up, but
remembered he wanted to im-
prison a highlight on Heather
Higgins’s nose and forgot the
papers.

Someone had been into his
paints. A tube of Payne’s gray
had been pressed dry. The cap
was off the gamboge, and a
new tube of bice green had
been squeezed in fhe middle.
Nor had the intruder bothered
to scrape the palette, which
gleamed with puddles of col-
or.

A dab of ivory, the hint of
rose madder and a suspicion

of cadmium yellow fused un-
der his brush tip. Creative
fury struck him, and he failed
to notice a figure that paused
at the outside front gate. The
figure stooped, picked up
something, then carefully
scanned the inside walkway.
Here, too, she picked up some-
thing. She stooped momentari-
ly on the front porch, and
again in the hallway.

Then Heather Higgins
stood in the studio. Her
gaze swept the floor, and she
bent over to pick up a candy
wrapper.

“You don’t have to do that,”
Jerry said. “I was getting
around to it — eventually.”

She whirled to face him.
Her eyes turned from azure to
ultramarine. “You might tell
me what’s going on around
here !”

“Suppose you tell me, I’m
still trying to catch up with
it myself.”

‘^Thiefr

“Thief?”

“Stealing Scotch whiskey
and my new plaid skirt! But
you made a mistake on the
rum butter toffee. I trailed
the wrappers.”

The Scotch whiskey and
rum toffee Jerry could see a
reason for — but not the plaid
skirt. “So help me, I’m inno-
cent.”

“So you’re innocent!” She
dashed to a comer behind the
easel and snatched a plaid
skirt from the floor.

“You'll just have to believe

by H. A. HARTZELL

me. I had nothing to do with
it.’’

‘‘Oh no?”

‘‘Look at me. Do I look like
a criminal?”

As she looked her expres-
sion softened slightly, but she
said, “I always picked the
wrong picture in psychology
tests. It’s you innocent look-
ing fellows that always turn
out to be the crooks.”

Jerry tried his best to look
desperate. The result was too
much for Heather Higgins,
who laughed.

‘‘Hold it,” Jerry said. ‘‘I
want to catch your eyes.”

He grabbed his brush and
made several quick strokes on
the canvas.

“Why,” she said, “it looks
like me — a. little. But I’m not
that pretty.”

“You are. And it’d look
more like you if I didn’t have
to do it from memory.”

And that was how Heather
Higgins reluctantly happened
to promise Jerry Masterson
she’d return next morning for
a sitting. She left, and Jerry
was eating dinner when Cap-
tain Wully walked in to the
whistled measures of Comin*
Through the Rye,

**Ryer said Jerry. “You?
Rye?”

“I borrowed her old man’s
Scotch, if that’s what you’re
gettin’ at. And if you think I
enjoyed eatin’ all that candy
just to leave a trail — I hope I
don’t see another piece of can-
dy for three hundred years.”

“Just to satisfy my curi-

DEATH AND TAXES

osity,” Jerry pleaded, “where
does the plaid skirt come in?”
“The MacGreggor tartan? I
needed a kilt.”

“All of a sudden you need
a kilt. Why?”

“It’s a long story. But
first — ” he reached into a cup-
board and produced Jerry’s
safety razor — “do you mind if
I borrow this? And where do
you keep the scissors?”

It took fifteen minutes to
locate the scissors.

“We were discussing a
kilt,” Jerry prompted.

“If a body kiss a body, need
a body cry,” sang Captain
Wully’s baritone.

But, eventually. Captain
Wully and the scissors were
seated at the table behind a
round magnifying mirror. “It
begins with Gertrude. You re-
member how she scooted
through the studio this after-
noon with a werewolf after
her?”

“How stupid of me not to
realize.”

“I felt Gertrude needed
help. I caught up with the
werewolf and gave him a piece
of my mind. ‘Pretty small po-
tatoes,’ I says, ‘when a were-
wolf chases cats. You must be
pretty second-rate to have
fallen so low. A regular lamb
in wolf’s clothing.’ T’ll have
you know,’ he says, T’m pretty
hot stuff. Related to Dracula
on my mammy’s side, and to
Frankenstein on my pap-
py’s.’ ”

The scissors snipped rapid-
ly, and bits of pink mustache

littered the unswept floor.

“ ‘A renegade/ I says. ‘Your
family must be awfully proud
of you. Chasing cats!’
Ouch — ” as the scissors
slipped. “I says, ‘Where do
you live?’ And he says, ‘Down
the road a piece. I’m lapdog
for an Indian princess.’ ‘I
think,’ I says, usin’ my head
real quick like, ‘I better see
you home and see what your
mistress has to say about
this.’ ”

The mustache having been
whittled to a tailored tooth-
brush, Captain Wully started
on his beard. “You should see
her, laddie. A real Indian
princess, left over from a Lov-
ers Leap. Bein’ four hundred
years old, she’s real aristoc-
racy and doesn’t mingle with
younger ghosts, which is why
I never seen her before. My-
self, I’m three score and hard-
ly in her class. Although I
must say she took a shine to
me. But Indian braves don’t
wear beards.’’

Captain Wully put down the
razor and revealed that he
too was beardless. “Sporran,
silver buckles and all the fix-
in’s I got in my sea-chest — but
my kilt went down wi’ my
ship.”

When Captain Wully real-
ized Heather Higgins had tak-
en the plaid skirt home, he
was inconsolable.

Heather Higgins kept

her appointment to sit
next morning. She was greet-
ed at the mailbox by a sub-

dued young man, who hastily
shoved in his pocket a letter
promising drastic action in
the matter of “tax liens
against property situate, to
wit, etc.”

“The oddest thing has hap-
pened,” she said.

And Jerry knew. “The plaid
skirt is gone again.”

She gave him a chilly look.
“See here! For a young man
who claims to know nothing
about —

“It’s my handyman,” he bab-
bled. “My handyman’s a klep-
tomaniac.”

“Lem Butler’s the only
handyman in town. Don’t try
to tell me Lem — ”

“Since the person concerned
is progressing toward a cure,
I can’t mention names.
Couldn’t you let me pay for
the skirt?” It took a lot of
fast talking, and it took time
— but he finally diverted her
attention.

She was a patient model. He
quickly blocked in the flowing
waves of her hair. But a lis-
tening look had come over her.
Jerry listened too.

Down the stairwell drifted
muted notes of a bagpipe,
striving to adapt its chromatic
limitations to ^Indian Love
Call.* Another instrument was
audible also.

“Funny thing about this
house,” he said. “When I first
moved in, I used to think I
heard bagpipes.”

“Accompanied by a glock-
enspiel ?”

“Is that what it is?”

by H. A. HARTZELL

The upper half of a very el-
derly gentleman bobbed in.

Junior r bawled Captain
Wully from the stairs.

‘'Leave me alone/* pleaded
the elderly gentleman. “Lem-
me concentrate.**

Captain Wully dashed in.
“For shame, Junior. Steal-

ingr

Junior*s eyes filled with
tears. “Just one more nip, and
I know I could have relaxed
enough to finish materializ-
ing.

Heather’s fascinated gaze
wavered between the bottom-
less Junior and Captain Wul-
ly’s kilt. The kilt had a zipper
placket exactly like a lady’s
skirt. “I think I’m losing my
mind,” she said.

Jerry Masterson attempted
to explain the inexplicable.
He recounted events of the
preceding several days and
concluded, “No matter what
you think, you couldn’t see
him if you didn’t believe.”
“What about the glocken-
spiel?” she asked weakly.

“That’s Red Skeleton,” said
Captain Wully. “He uses a
couple of ball-peen hammers
on his ribs. We was tunin’ up
to serenade Pocahauntus.”
“The cat,” said Heather.
“She’s left out.”

“Oh, no, she ain’t. Gertrude
sings coloratura.”

**That even I don’t believe,”
said Jerry.

JUNIOR’S upper half poised
before the easel, and he
flourished a brush. “Just a

DEATH AND TAXES

touch about the eyes. And an-
other here.” He flicked at the
mouth.

“Get away from there T
yelled Jerry.

Junior burst into tears
again. “I was only trying to
help. Besides, it did need — ”

“Well, I’ll be...” Jerry
looked at the canvas. “Junior
was right.”

“About Gertrude,” insisted
Captain Wully. “If you don’t
believe it, why don’t you come'
serenadin’ with us, you and
Miss Heather?”

Jerry looked inquiringly at
Hfeather.

“I’ll hate myself if I do,”
she said.

“Then we won’t go.”

“But I’ll hate myself worse
if I don’t.”

He called that evening to
take her to the serenade, and
met her family. Mr. Higgins
was very pleasant. Mrs. Hig-
gins was very pleasant. But
Jerry was uncomfortably
aware of a large photograph
on the mantle. The photograph
was of a young man, and it
was not pleasant. Its eyes fol-
lowed Heather Higgins pos-
sessively. The photograph’s
tailored suit intimated its
pockets were not lined with
tax liens.

Mrs. Higgins noticed Jer-
ry’s interest. “That’s Wesley
Tatom.”

“Of the First National Bank
Tatoms,” said Mrs. Higgins.

“His great grandfather was
Ephraim Tatom,” said Mrs.
Higgins.

by H. A. HARTZELL

Ephraim Tatom, so Jerry
gathered in the next half hour,
had practically blazed the
Oregon Trail single-handed.

''Wesley is attending the
State Bankers Convention
right now,” said Mr. Higgins.

Mrs. Higgins gave Jerry a
meaningful look. "We’re very
fond of dear, sweet Wesley,”
she said.

Jerry was understandably
relieved when it came time to
depart.

As for the serenade, Ger-
trude was in fine voice. Her
words were incomprehensible,
but no more so than foreign
opera. Captain Wully puffed
through Indian Love Call and
a pibroch or two on the pipes,
ably assisted by Red Skeleton
on the glockenspiel and Jun-
ior on the mouth-harp.

Princess Pocahauntus was
impressed by Captain Wully’s
full dress. She fingered the
flowing shoulder plaid, tsk-
tsking over the fineness of
such a blanket. And the silver
buckle s— only a big chief
would possess such wealth.

Gertrude bristled, and ^s-
car, the werewolf, dashed up
with a limp and furry trophy,
which he laid at the princess’
feet.

“What’s that?” Heather
gasped.

“A sidehill gouger,” ex-
plained Pocahauntus. “Sec?”

SHE put the little animal up-
right, or as nearly upright
as circumstances permitted,
for the gouger's left legs were

DEATH AND TAXES

three inches shorter than his
right ones. Reaching into her
reticule, she produced a cou-
ple of artistically carved bone
pegs, which she fastened to
the abbreviated left legs.
“Prosthetics. Relics of our
last gouger, who migrated to
Switzerland.”

“Somebody ought to write a
book,” mused Heather.

“Lots of books have been
written,” said Pocahauntus,
“but not one from the 'inside.'
What we spirits need is a
John Gunther. Now take the
subject of Lovers Leaps. More
twaddle has been written
about — ”

“I’ve done a couple of re-
gional articles for the Covered
Wagon Quarterly, but nobody
wants to print my historical
fiction,” said Heather. “What
about Lovers Leaps?”

“Now take my own. I was
really running away from a
greasy warrior. He chased me
to the cliff edge and, in my
girlish innocence, I jumped.
What price virtue!”

“Too bad I wasn’t around,”
mourned Captain Wully. “I’d
a-caught you.”

“If I had it to do over
again, I wouldn’t jump.” Her
black eyes flashed, and she
drew herself up regally. “I’d
push that feather-headed Cas-
anova off instead.”

Then, graciously, she sug-
gested barbecuing a salmon
over the open fire, but Heath-
er was afraid it would take
too long and her parents
might worry. So she and Jer-

ry excused themselves and left
^ptain Wully to his court-
ing. As Jerry walked Heather
up the front steps, the scent of
lilacs was an invitation to ro-
mance, the moon a lover’s
promise.

“Good night,** said Heather.
“It’s been such fun.“

Her handclasp carried a hint
of finality that went be-
yond words, and Jerry said,
^Beenr^

“Wesley gets back tomor-
row.”

Without being told, Jerry
knew that Heather’s portrait
would have to be finished
from memory. Any man
worthy of the name, Jerry
told himself, would have ar-
gued the point — unless he was
broke and jobless and had a
tax lien in his pocket.

He tried to work on her pic-
ture next morning, sought to
imprison the laughter of her
eyes, the song of her lips. But
then he realized that the
laughter was for somebody
else. The song too.

From above came a few ex-
perimental notes on the glock-
enspiel. Presently Junior’s
mouth harp joined in. The
melody -staggered uncertainly,
finally emerged as Mendels-
sohn’s Wedding March,

Jerry threw down his brush
and left the house. He walked
toward the lighthouse. That
once stately saltbox had al-
ready lost its lensed cupola
and most of its siding. He
watched for a long time as the
Sam Schultz Salvage Compa-

ny pried board from board and
piled all in a stack of jack-
straws. Maybe he could go to
work for Sam Schultz and
make enough to pay off the
taxes. And, if he observed all
the Horatio Alger niceties,
maybe some day he’d own the
company and could seek
Heather Higgins’ hand in mar-
riage— only to discover she
had long since married Wes-
ley.

He walked along the beach.
Climbing to a jutting promon-
tory, he watched waves break
against the rocks below. Why
not throw himself into the
sea? He could become a ghost,
and maybe find a lady ghost,
and. . .

He went home and forced
himself to work on
Heather Higgins’ portrait. He
filled an entire sketch pad
with brief line drawings of
her until, late at night, he
finally fell asleep in his chair.
He awakened to broad day-
light— and the whistling of
the. postman.

The letter was from Eloise
Wright, Chairman of the
Northport Art Festival, and
concerned his canvases.

Ellis is positively dithy-
nmbicl Claims you*ve
caught a hauntingly spirit-
ual quality, and wants to
buy the storm canvas for his
San Francisco galleries.
Barret, the Chicago Barret,
is lyrical about the spectral
lights and shadows, and is

hy »C A. HARTZELL

writing his New York deal-
er about a showing. Have
sold four canvases. Enclose
certified check —

Jerry reached for a chair.
Four canvases? His asking
price for four canvases had
never come to any such figure
as the check represented. The
letter contained a postscript.

Barret is out of his head
over ^'Gertrude.*' Impres- ,
sionism at its finest, with
an eerie, imaginative qual-
ity unsurpassed by any
American artist. Soul of the
eternally feminine, as typi-
fied by a cat with a hole in
the head. Social satire in
oil. Picture not priced. He
asks what will you take
within reason? One thou-
sand?

Jerry was sure of only one
thing. He’d never painted any
picture of Gertrude. There
was, however, the matter of
that tube of bice green
squeezed in the middle, and
the gamboge left capless. He
ran to the stairwell and yelled
for Captain Wully, who pres-
ently appeared.

‘T have here a letter — ”

‘T didn’t do it,” Captain
Wully protested. ** ’Twas
Junior touched up the paint-
ings. And ’twas Junior paint-
ed Gertrude. Me? All I did
was help Junior dry the paint
and boost your prices a wee
muckle.”

“How much?”

“By nothing at all, you
might say. A zero on the
end?”

Jerry looked at the check.
‘T feel like I’ve been obtaining
money under false pretenses.
Junior doesn’t even get any
credit.”

“But he does. Every one of
those paintings was signed ‘J.
Masterson-Junior.’ ”

“I feel more honest about
banking the check,” said Jer-
ry.

When he made out his de-
posit slip and totaled his bank
balance, Jerry reflected how
quickly an inferiority com-
plex can melt in financial sun-
shine. He made a brief stop at
the post office, where 'he
mailed a check to the county
assessor. He then headed
straight for Heather Higgins’
front door.

She had company.

“Glad to know you.” Jerry
acknowledged introduction to
Wesley Tatom and stared
with helpless fascination at
the latter’s necktie — of Mac-
Greggor plaid.

“You arrived just in time to
give me a little moral sup-
port,” said Heather breathless-

ly-

“Now, Heather, we mustn’t
bore Masterson with our per-
sonal difficulties.”

“I’ve started a story about
Oscar the werewolf, but Wes-
ley thinks — ”

Wesley intei;-rupted. “I’m
looking at it from a business
standpoint. Some day I’ll step
into my father’s shoes at the

DEATH AND TAXES

bank. And what would the
Board of Directors think of a
bank president's wife who
wrote claptrap about were-
wolves and spare-rib glocken-
spiels?"

doubt if they’d think any-
thing at all — particularly if it
paid well," said Jerry, and
stared at Wesley Tatom’s tie.
The knot had begun to ease
gently.

‘Tf she thinks she wants to
write, why can’t she stick to
covered wagons, and — "

“How stuffy of you!’’ said
Heather.

Wesley Tatom felt uncer-
tainly of his tie, tightened the
knot.

“As a matter of curiosity,"
Jerry addressed his rival,
“what makes you so sure
Heather is going to marry
you?"

“It’s one of those taken-for-
granted matters. We’ve gone
together since — say ! What
business is it of yours, any-
way !”

Now Heather, too, was
watching Wesley’s necktie.

“I don’t think women like to
be taken for granted," Jerry
said.

One end of the necktie be-
came longer and longer as its
opposite end shortened. With
a final but quiet jerk, the
necktie came free, hesitated
for a moment opposite Wes-
ley’s belt buckle, then folded
itself neatly and floated away.

Heather giggled. “Were you
laughing at me?” Wesley de-
manded. ■

“Heather," said Jerry, “will
you marry me?”

In the free-for-all that fol-
lowed, nobody settled any-
thing.

All that occurred some
time ago, of course. Mean-
while, what collector hasn’t
heard of J. Masterson- Junior,
whose canvases are lauded for
their “other world" quality?
And, if you have children, you
probably know by heart the
little book chronicling the
fortunes and misfortunes of
Oscar, the werewolf who
fainted at the sight of blood.
And there’s Harriet, the
hodag. And Gary, the stone-
eating gyascutus. And Robert,
the sidehill gouger.

Recently in print is a story
of Oscar’s love for Vi, the
Vitiated Vampire.

Mr. and Mrs. Jerry Master-
son are widely respected. She
writes the books. He illus-
trates them in his spare time.
Such a delightfully zany cou-
ple ! Always joking about a
Scottish sea captain who lives
in the attic and is married to
an Indian princess.

No wonder the Masterson
children are overly imagina-
tive— warning their playmates
not to sit on Gertrude, not to
step on Oscar’s tail. But all
kids go through a phase like
that. Only a few of them are
lucky enough to grow up and
make money out of it — lots of
highly respectable money —
like the Mastersons. END

by H. A HARTZELL

IF • Short Story

MISRULE

Glen Wheatley thanked his lucky stars for bis good fortune
every day of his life . . . every day, that is, but one!

by ROBERT SCOTT

The brick smashed through
the window and skittered
across the top of Glen Wheat-
ley’s desk. He had already
removed most of the break-
ables, but it caught a large
plastic ash tray and sent it
caroming off his cheekbone.
A thin trickle of blood crept
down his face.

“Good God, aren’t they
starting a little early this
year?” Bert Hillary, who
shared Wheatley’s office, was
obviously not expecting an
answer. He had been making
it clear for the past hour
(they had all got to their
desks an hour earlier for this
day) that he was an old
hand, while this was Glen’s
first experience of People’s
Day.

Glen knew that Hillary had
been in the Civil Service only
five or six years. He himself
could hardly be accused of
being an expert on the every-
four-years Day. Still, he
waited for the older man to
make the first move.

Hillary got up and peered
cautiously out the shattered
windov/. “Yeah, they’re al-
ready boiling around the out-
er wall like yeast in a vat.
That guy with the brick must
have quite a pitching arm.”
Sweat stood out on his fore-
head. He was clearly much
more frightened than he pre-
tended to be.

Glen noticed this with some
satisfaction. At least, he
wasn’t the only one. “Come
on, Wheatley. Us lower-level

boys have got to be on the
hop. You’d be surprised how
fast that mob can get up
here.”

Glen unfolded the map of
Government House that had
been placed on his desk that
morning. He stared grimly at
it, dabbing at his cheek with
a rather grubby handkerchief
meanwhile. The bleeding did
not show any signs of stop-
ping.

Hillary hurried to the door.
'‘Come on !” He was openly
nervous now. “It’s no good
studying that map for safety-
holes now. You should have
been doing that ever since
we got here this morning.’'

As a matter of fact, Glen
had been doing just that,
whenever Hillary’s flow of
words had momentarily run
dry. But he had not yet got
the location of all the nearby
hidden cubbies clearly in his
mind. “Government House is
such a maze,” he said defen-
sively.

“And we’re damned lucky
it is,” Hillary said from the
doorway. “Anyway, how do
you know that map you’ve got
there isn’t just what they’ve
been hawking in People’s
Square all this past week?”
He gave a slightly sick leer.

“You know those maps are
inaccurate. They’re just a
sop, just to give the mob an
extra t h r i 1 L Government
House plants most of them.”
He could sound like an old
hand, too, Glen thought with
a certain smugness.

“Nuts to that. Some of them
are amazingly accurate. There
are a hell of a lot of non-Gov-
ernment people in here from
year to year, and some of
them aren’t here just on busi-
ness. Let’s get going.” Hillary
pulled Glen through the door,
and then locked it. Glen
raised his eyebrows at this.
“Oh, sure,” his co-worker
said wryly. “Gives the People
something to v/ork off steam
on.” He patted the flimsy
door. “This will cave in un-
der a few hard shoulders.
Not like the safety-hole pan-
els. We hope.”

“But they don’t unlock for
another half hour in this
area.”

“Thirty-eight minutes, to be
exact,” Hillary said, glancing
at his watch. “And of course
the ones deeper in and higher
up open even later. We’re
supposed to give them a run
for their taxes.”

The corridor was emptying
out rapidly. Glen could
hear smashing noises from
the ground floor.

Apparently the People were
already in the building, be-
ginning their day of destruc-
tion. He thought gratefully
of his private apartment,
tucked away in the impreg-
nable heart of Government
House. Of course, it was
closed off to him too on this
day; but at least it was safe
from the mob. They would get
mainly the chaff to destroy.
“I’m heading for the upper

by ROBERT SCOTT

levels/^ Hillary said. “Even if
the safeties open later up
there, it takes longer for the
mob to penetrate. There’s
enough breakable and burn-
able stuff at the first few lev-
els to keep them busy for a
while. Coming?”

Glen had just seen Joan
Bourne emerge from her of-
fice and lock the door. He
headed toward her. “I’m go-
ing to stay near some out-of-
the-way safety in this area and
hop in when it first opens. I
don’t feel like running from
the People,” he called back
with a bravado he did not real-
ly feel.

“Suit yourself.” Hillary was
already at the stairs. He
paused for a moment. “And
good luck.”

“Thanks,” Glen said. “Good
hiding.”

Joan had been listening, and
met him in the middle of the
corridor. “I think you’ve got
the right idea, Glen. Want
some company?”

He smiled, and brushed her
cheek with his lips. “You
know the answer to that, Joan.
For life.”

“This is Hardly the day to
bring that up again.” She took
his arm, and they turned off
down a side corridor. “Be-
sides, I thought our relation-
ship was very nice as it is,”
she pouted.

“It is. I’m just greedy.”

The side passageway took
them deeper into the labyrinth
that was Government House.
Glen had hardly ever been out

of it. He had been born and.
brought up in the great ce;n-
tral area that surrounded Gov-
ernment Park, now sealed off
from both the People and the
Civil Servants. Apart from a
vacation trip to another city’s
Government House, this had
been Glen’s entire world. And
two years ago he had passed
the Examinations and become
a full-fledged CS, with all the
privileges — and perils, he was.
now realizing — that that en-
tailed.

They turned into another
corridor, went past a bank of
elevators — turned off for the
day, as all the elevators were
in the official section of the
building — and went up a long
flight of stairs.'^

Glen stopped at the third
level.

“This looks like as good a
spot as any to wait for the
first safety-holes to open. It’s
out of the way. And there’s a
hole right here, according to
the map. It’ll be opening in
twenty minutes. The mob
should be busy down there for
longer than that.” They locat-
ed the almost invisible key
square, and Glen pressed his
Class-6 key to it. “Just on the
chance they might have given
us a break,” he said half
apologetically.

“Apparently they haven’t,”
Joan murmured. “Let’s see if
my Class-5 has any better
luck.” She pressed her own
key to the square, but the pan^
el still refused to slide back.
Class-5 sliehers in this area

MISRULE

were often combined with
those for Class 6.

Glen looked at her quiz-
zically. “Joan, we gradu-
ated at the same time, and
you’re already Class-5 — Job
Consultation — while I’m still
Class-6 — Secondary School
Allocation. How do you do
it?”

“Brains, personality and tal-
ent. Hadn’t you noticed?” She
pressed close to him.

He kissed her. “Mmm, yes.
But I still don’t see. ...”
“Darling,” she said, “Joan
Bourne is a young lady des-
tined to go far. And fast.”
“You seem so different
from the other girls here
though, Joan/” He blushed.
“You didn’t happen to come
from... Outside. Er...from
the People, that is?”

“I grew up in Block 6, Sec-
tion A, overlooking the statue
of Martyr Sherman Adams in
Government Park. Just two
blocks down from you, if I
remember your records cor-
rectly.”

“You’ve had access to my
records?”

“Class-5 always does to
Class-6’s. And I took a special
interest in you, my dear.” She
stroked his cheek.

“Then you’re forgiven the
snooping,” Glen smiled. “But
to think I was being so polite
and discreet about asking your
origins !”

“Not many take the Exams
and come to Civil Service
from Outside any more, sweet.

Just as not many from here
decide to go out and try their
luck in the big world. Gener-
ally we stay on our side of the
fence, and they stay on theirs.
Except for the Day, of course.
And then it’s all one-way
traffic.”

“But I’ve heard some CS
people go Outside for their
vacation. I never have, of
course, but...”

“Oh, yes, quite a few do.
You’re taken in a CS plane
to another Government House,
where you won’t be known in
the city outside. You are given
appropriate papers and emerge
from the House during busi-
ness hours. You mingle with
the People, just like one of
them. And when vacation’s
over, back to the House for
Job Consultation or Welfare
Benefits or whatever you
want to trump up. Show your
true papers, and you’re
whisked back to your own
cozy womb.” She smiled remi-
niscently. “Outside is an in-
teresting experience.”

This annoyed Glen obscure-
ly. He put his arm around her.
“I don’t want you going Out-
side again. At least, not with-
out me.”

“Oh, the People are just
people. Except for today...”

well, the Bourne
from which no traveler
returneth! Hope I’m not in-
terrupting anything, my dear.
Anything important, that is.”
At this unexpected voice,
Glen let go of Joan and spun

by ROBERT SCOTT

to face the intruder. It was a
Class-2 High Official named
Duckpath, whom he had heard
speak at a few Government
banquets. He dropped his
fists, which he had uncon-
sciously raised.

‘'Mustn’t be so nervous,
young man,” Duckpath said,
swaying slightly. He was ob-
viously quite drunk. ‘^How are
you, joanie?” He patted her
rump affectionately and gave
her a smacking kiss. Joan
looked both annoyed and
amused. Glen flushed, but said
nothing.

After a moment of contem-
plating the new arrival, Joan
said, “Well, Ducks, what
brings you down to the lower
echelons?”

‘‘Oh, pleasure, pleasure, my
dear. Wanted to see all the
fun and games. Usually pretty
dull on top, you know.” He
winked at her, then cocked an
ear. ‘‘Sounds like the rabble
are getting warmer, too.”

Glen listened, and realized
he had been hearing all along
a dim muttering which was
now clearly getting louder. A
distinct crash sounded, and he
was sure he smelled smoke.

“Come on, Joan,” he said,
tugging at her arm. “Let’s get
into the shelter. It must be
time now.”

“Young man, you are obstre-
perous, aren’t you?” Duckpath
interposed himself between
Glen and Joan. “Be calm, be
calm. As you may know, my
key will open any of the low-
er echelon’s shelters, and at

any time. Yours is not due to
open for five minutes yet, for
example, but at the touch of
this — ” he flashed his Class-2
key — “all barriers will fall
before us. And I like the scent
of danger. Just the scent, of
course. Now — ” he motioned to
Glen — “if you will just stand
by that stairway, you will be
able to see them in plenty of
time for us all to get into
shelter. You two shall be my
guests. It will be very cozy.”
He giggled.

Glen scowled, but dki as he
was told.

It was true that the stairs
were the obvious place for the
onslaught. They led both up
and down. He assumed Duck-
path had come down them, but
of course the People were still
below, although apparently
working their way rapidly to
the stairs. The only other way
up to this area was through
one of the secret passageways,
which the mob would not
know about.

Another crash echoed up
the stairwell, much louder
this time. A wisp of smoke
curled lazily in the air in
front of him.

Glen fingered the caked
blood on his cheek. Things he
bad never questioned before
seemed utterly meaningless
and cruel now. His irritation
with Duckpath bubbled over,
and he said sourly, “What
madness ! This whole proce-
dure is incredibly stupid and
wasteful.”

Joan glanced at Duckpath

MISRULE

with raised eyebrows^ but said
nothing. That gentleman at
first stiffened, then relaxed
and said blandly, ‘T wouldn’t
criticize the Government too
much, my boy. It gives us all
we have. And it can take it
away also.” He smiled. ”This
is not madness, but sheer sani-
ty. You must have been ne-
glecting your Political Science
courses.”

”Sanity ! It’s murder and
destruction,” Glen muttered.

”You know very well, young
man, that all that is being
destroyed is easily replaced.
Will be replaced tomorrow, in
fact. Ours is an opulent, pro-
ductive society.” Duckpath’s
smile deepened into a smirk.
”A11 the important documents,
all the valuables, are safely
locked away in the central sec-
tion. And the good that is be-
ing done today!” He became
rapturous. “The People are led
by us, led by the nose. We de-
cide where they will go to
school, where they will live,
which job they will get, how
many children they may have.
Soon we will decide when
they are to die. We have the
power.” His eyes glistened.

“And in return we give
them security. The population
is balanced, the country pro-
ductive, the old cared for;
there is medical service for
all. Everything is arranged
for the best by the great com-
plex of Government Houses
all over the world. Everything
is in the hands of the Govern-
ment.” Duckpath was panting

slightly. “Everything is in our
hands.”

everything is so perfect,

-*"why this?” Glen gestured
toward the cloud of smoke
seeping through the entrance
to the stairway.

“It’s only the office fur-
nishings. The building itself
won’t burn,” Joan murmured.

Duckpath gave her a little
squeeze. “Our callow young
friend is talking about the ha-
tred, I believe, Joanie. The
urge of the People to destroy
and kill. Well, it is only natu-
ral.” He belched softly.
“These People are aware that
their lives are woven from
threads held in Government
House. And though they are
well cared for, they resent it.
They resent having to file
into this building and be allo-
cated to this and that. They
want someone to take care of
them, but they resent their
loss of freedom. They resent
our power.

“So this is their day. It
comes once every four years.
The day that gives them the
illusion that they have some
control over us, the day of
Mob Rule. This is the day
they can express all their
locked-up frustrations, all
their fury at the State which
feeds and clothes them and
watches over them. They can
batter down and smash and
burn.” Duckpath stared at
Glen and seemed to sober a
little. “Yes, they can even
kill. They cannot bring guns

by ROBERT SCOTT

or knives here, but they can
use fire and fists and stones.
And that is even better for
boiling away their hostilities.
The hotheads among the Peo-
ple will go so far as to kill,
and that will cool them. But
they will get only the fumble-
fingered and feeble-witted.
The rest will take care of
themselves.” He paused for a
moment, breathless. ”Do you
realize we haven’t had even
the sniff of a revolution in
four hundred years? No civil
strife at all. No charge of any
kind.” He laughed. “This is
Sheep’s Day. . .their day to be
wolves.”

“Glen, you’d better watch
the stairs,” Joan said, her face
taut.

Glen started. Duckpath’s
harangue had distracted him,
and somehow chilled him too.
He peered down the stairwell.
There were People at the end
of the lower corridor, milling
around and shouting.

“We’ve got to get to shel-
ter,” he said, hurrying toward
Joan.

Duckpath began to talk
again. “This is nothing new.
The Romans had a word for
it, and a day for it, too. A day
when the laws were abandoned
and society was turned upside
down. A day when the people
cast off the bonds of civiliza-
tion and order. A day of Mis-
rule. They even had a King of
Misrule. I rather like that. I
might be such a King.” He
struck a pose. “King of Mis-
rule !” He turned with a grand

gesture to Joan. “And you
are my...”

A rock crashed against the
side of his head. Another ex-
ploded on the wall next to
Glen.

“The secret passageways,
Glen!” Joan screamed.
“They’ve come up the other
way. The maps must have
been accurate this time.”

There was a knot of men at
the far bend of the corridor.
They carried torches, and
clumps of stones in sacks at
their waists. Obviously they
were not the dilettantes of
People’s Day. They were af-
ter more than the crash of fur-
niture.

“Get the dame, boys!” one
of them yelled. They charged
forward. Duckpath was lying
across the entrance to the
shelter, and the mob was al-
most on him.

“We’ve got to take the stair-
way, Joan!” Glen cried, fum-
bling at her arm.

“His key, his key!” She
knelt beside Duckpath and
pulled the key out of his
hand. The High Official
stirred, but did not speak. An
amazing amount of blood had
already accumulated on the
floor around him.

A brick grazed Glen’s shoul-
der, sending him spinning
toward the stairway. Joan
rushed after him, and they
pounded the stairs together.
“I can get in anywhere with
this,” she gasped, holding up
the key.

MISRULE

Presumably the half-con-
scious Duckpath had made the
oncoming men pause. Ripping
sounds could be heard, and a
horrible strangled cry. They
were relieving the High Offi-
cial of his personal belong-
ings— and probably of his life.

But the People from the
floor below were now surging
up the stairs, joined by four
men from the crowd that had
first seen Joan. “Get the
dame! Government meat !'•
The cry came booming up to
Glen and Joan.

They stumbled into the cor-
ridor at the next landing, real-
izing they would never make
it up the next flight before
the mob reached them. They
were both fumbling with
their maps. “There’s a small
Class-3 right around here,”
Joan waved her map in his
face. She raced along the wall
for a few yards and then
clapped Duckpath’s key to it.
A panel slid back and she
slipped inside. “Thank God!”
She glanced around her. “Dar-
ling, it’s only a single. Too
bad.”

There was obviously no
room for another person, Glen
saw with dismay. Joan and
the air-freshening apparatus
took up all the space.

“Hurry and find another,
sweets.” She pitched him the
Class-2 key, and blew him a
kiss as the door slid shut. It
would open again only after
sundown, when People’s Day
was officially over.

A mass of screaming People

burst from the stairway, and
raised a great shout on seeing
Glen. He dashed down the cor-
ridor, turned left, and then
turned right at the next pas-
sageway. He was in a long cor-
ridor ending in a large win-
dow opening on the outside.

Glen squinted at his map
through eyes that refused to
focus. He suddenly realized
they were streaming with
tears.

There was a Class-4 shelter
several paces along on the
left. He rushed to it and
pressed the High Official’s
key to the square. A dim red
light glowed through the
plastic of the key. Full.

He pounded on the panel.
Of course it was soundproof.
Of course the shelter was
full of wise Civil Servants.
Only the fumble-fingered and
the feeble-witted, only the
chaff...

The People came pouring
around the corner as Glen
backed toward the end of the
corridor. A stone sang past
him and smashed through the
window. Another caught him
in the ribs. He backed faster,
now completely blinded by
tears. The growl of hatred
from the mob grew louder. A
heavy blow struck his collar-
bone and he lurched backward.
His knees caught, and then
he was flipping over. Out and
down.

He sailed through the air.

The pressure of the mob was
gone. There was no time to
think. There was just an cx-

by ROBERT SCOTT

hilarating sense of flight, of
space, of freedom.

Editorial from the Al-
bany Evening Star:

A MOST SUCCESSFUL
PEOPLE* S DAY
People’s 'Day is over again.
For four more years peace
and order reign over the land.

We feel that this year’s
Day was one of the most suc-
cessful in history. The damage
seemed to be substantially less

than usual. Among those no
longer with us are:

Oliver Duckpath: Class-2

High Official
Deeply valued, he will be
missed, as those whom he
cared for in his work as
Supervisor will testify.
Lizabeth Brennan : Class-6
Religion Consultant
Glen Wheatley : Class-6 Sec-
ondary School Allocator
Thurmond Christian :
Class-6... END

As a convenience, the Editors of IF provide this nomination
blank for you to express your views on the forthcoming an-
nual ‘"Hugo” awards. Just detach and mail. Plain paper may be
used if desired.

1962 HUGO AWARDS NOMINATION BLANK

20th World Science Fiction Convention • P. 0. Box 4864 • Chicago 80,
Illinois. Please enter my nominations in the following categories. I feel
this is the best science fiction 'published during 1961 and should be
considered for recognition at the Annual Hugo Awards Banquet on
September 2.

1. Novel

2. Short Fiction

3. Dramatic Presentation

4. Professional Artist

5. Professional Magazine

6. Amateur Magazine

To become a valid nomination, this blank must be signed with name and
address and postmarked by midnight April 20. Only Convention members
will receive a voting ballot, distributed June 5 with the 4th issue of the
Progress Repoii;; a $2.00 membership fee, payable to George W. Price,
Treasurer, will insure your vote and enter your subscription for the
Progress Reports.

Name , — . ■ — .. .. ,. ■■■■

Address

City Zone State

I already hold convention membership #

CHICON III # Pick-Congress Hotel • Chicago # August 31 - Sept. 3

MISRULE 47

IF • Science Feature

...AND BESIDES
THOSE BOMBS...

WE entered World War I
with a number of active
cavalry detachments. We en-
tered World War II with a
great many spruce-sparred,
fabric-covered biplanes. In
each case there were old-line
specialists who fought like the
devil to keep what was dem-
onstrably obsolete, old-line of-
ficers, who persisted in fight-
ing the last war this time with
the last war's methods. Be-
cause it all happened in our
time, it is difficult to get de-
tached enough to realize that a
modern war stimulates not
only production, but invention
and design. In eighteen
months this country built
more ships and planes than it
would have, in normal times,
in half a century; and that
further, the B-29 (of which
we built thousands) was a de-

sign-century ahead of the old
Keystone bombers, of which
we had some dozens in 1939.

You'd think that by now
we'd realize that a new war,
or even a sharp intensification
of the cold war, will bring
about even more drastic devel-
opments. Technological ad-
vances don't occur arithmeti-
cally, in a straight slant like
a cellar door; they occur geo-
metrically, in a curve like a
ski-jump slope or Mr. Robert
Hope's famous nose. At this
writing the general public
seems to have a sort of numb
idea that a new war would be
something like the last, with
something or other called fall-
out added, and no conception
at all of the fact that a 100
megaton H-bomb has the pow-
er of five thousand of the
eggs we laid on Hiroshima

and Nagasaki. Most impor-
tantly, there’s so much talk
about the Big Bombs that wy
seem to have lost sight com-
pletely of the array of totally
novel weapons which are cer-
tain to emerge, just as the
bazooka and the P-40 and the
H-bomb itself emerged last
time.

Let’s take a look at some of
them — devices now ixi actual
existence, or under develop-
mental contract, or in other
ways a-borning.

THE LASER is a light-inten-
sifier. Coupled with radar and
a simple computing circuit, it
can get off a flash, in a split
second, which will put a hole
in a tank as big as your head
at 500 yards. Since this is a
beam, not a missile of any
kind, it travels at the speed of
light and needs no corrections
for windage or trajectory, and
does not have to ‘‘lead” a mov-
ing target. Its developers
claim that even in its present
primitive stage it can move
a satellite 1000 miles out
slightly off orbit.

THE ATOMIC PISTOL, using
slugs of californium, a rare
radioactive metal which has
a c h a i n-reaction-supporting
critical mass of not much
more than a .50-caliber bullet.
It will hit with the force of
10 tons of TNT.

RADAR "DEATH RAYS."

Present-day high-intensity ra-

dars are carefully fenced and
guarded lest they "fry” un-
wary bystanders. The effect is
protobly adaptable to weapon-
ry.

GASES. Aside from the
many and varied specialized
gases we wish we could forget
about but which are already in
the tanks, a “Miltown” gas has
been suggested and probably
has been formulated — some-
thing which can send out more
clouds of tranquilizer than an
election campaign.

ION BEAMS, and high-flux
focused beams of particles
other than ions — these too are
in the “death-ray” department.
The ion beam is a leading con-
tender for outer-space propul-
sion, which does not disqual-
ify it one bit from being a
lethal ray.

BIOLOGICAL WEAPONS,
PRIMARY. Twenty or more
diseases, some in intensified
natural form, some mutated.

BIOLOGICAL WEAPONS.
SECONDARY. The so-called
hormone “poisons,” which can
inhibit or de-control growth
patterns in cereal and other
plants, so that they fail to ma-
ture, or come to seed, or per-
haps die off. There is now a
new possibility that the same
sort of thing can be done by
viruses.

Along with these, there are
plans afoot involving not so

. • . AND BESIDES THOSE BOMBS . .

much new weapons, but new
uses for the weapons we have.

For example, it is theorized
that in certain areas of the
earth’s crust where known
geological faults exist, a res-
onance might be set up by
carefully calculated and timed
impacts and, just as marching
men can cause a bridge to col-
lapse, these impulses might
cause the fault to slip and
generate an earthquake.

Then there’s the tactic of
the Disguised War, where
prevailing winds could be
made to carry some debilitat-
ing but not deadly disease —
mononucleosis, for example,
which just makes you weak as
a duck — for a year or two un-
til you just had no resistance
(of any kind) any more.

SOME theoreticians have
suggested non-radioactive
dust bombs which might well
sharply raise or lower the at-
mospheric temperature. This
could raise, havoc with Russia
(and Canada incidentally)
without bothering us too
much. Russia, on the other
hand, could without compunc-
tion explode enough clean

bombs in enough of the right
places in the oceans, and so
load the troposphere with ice
crystals that the Pole would
warm up and the melting ice
would flood our coastal cities.
Russia hasn’t got any coastal
cities — not, that is, to compare
with ours.

Well... there are more we
could mention here, and cer-
tainly more too classified to
have leaked through to us, and
still naore which carry the
‘‘Burn Before Reading” stamp
and are unknown to all but a
few in the upper inner circle,
and again more which, as al-
ways happens, would leap into
being during a war or near-
war.

Reading down the list
makes one wonder why no one
seems to be pushing very hard
for a strong program of
meticulously performed, mu-
tually inspected, gradual dis-
armament. Perhaps the illiter-
ate populations are too igno-
rant, and the literate ones too
apathetic, to make themselves
heard.

Or perhaps that solution is
just too science-fiction-y for
them! END

★ ★ ★ ★ ^

IF • Short Story

He was a mighty hunter.

Trouble was, he was on the side of the beasts!

DEADLY

GAME

by EDWARD WELLEN

Deep in the dusk of the
wood Jess Seely saw the
beast’s pupils shine.

He had been careful of eve-
ry footfall and of every shift
of his shotgun as he made his
way through the forest. But
they had got wind of him,
they had been on his trail from
the instant he stepped into the
wood, they were all around
him now. The eyes vanished,
but he could hear soft scurry-
ings.

Move quietly and keep your
eyes open; that was the first
lesson he had learned and the
best. He moved still deeper
into the wood, years of wood-
craft in every move. The years
had slowed him. But the ex-
perience gained in those same
years had made every move

tell. He heard soft scurryings.
They were stalking him. How
would they try to get him this
time?

He let the shotgun dangle
carelessly so the barrels
threatened himself.

Would that fempt one of
them — a squirrel ?— to leap
from a limb, ainiing to strike
at the trigger apd set off the
shot? No, he sqw it now. They
had something else in wait
just ahead. A deadfall.

Only at the last fraction of
a second did his sweep of eye
take in the one bit of beaver
track they had failed to brush
away.

He walked slowly on, strain-
ing for sign of trip wire. It
would be a length of vine; he
should spot it by its dying

color. He should, but he did
not. ,,He frowned. Was he
guessing wrong? Then he
spotted it — a length of living
vine, one end still rooted, the
other wrapping the trunk of a
great spruce in a neat knot.
The spruce itself seemed un-
touched, at first sight. They
had plastered the gnawings
back in place, but to his eyes
— now that he knew what he
was looking for — there stood
out enough difference be-
tween the living wood and the
dead to show the big bite they
had taken out of the base of
the tree. He admired their
sense of balance. His lightest
brush against the vine would
bring the tree crashing down
on him.

To raise — then dash — their
hopes, he tried to keep from
letting on he had seen the set-
up and went on without break-
ing stride — then he length-
ened and lifted his step at the
last to miss triggering the trip
wire by a hair. A silence, then
a small chatter of disappoint-
ment.

He kept on. Under the talk-
ing foliage of quaking aspen
he made out other sounds.
Soft scurryings. What would
they have waiting ahead? A
noose? No, poison-tipped
thorns.

The rustle of leaves gave
warning. He whirled aside.
One of them — a raccoon? —
loosed a bent branch of haw-
thorn. The branch whipped at
him and the wicked spikes

barely missed his flesh. The
branch was still trembling
when he raised his shotgun
but the raccoon — he felt sure
it was a raccoon and smiled,
remembering the first of them,
Bandido— had vanished. Yet
he had to make the futile ges-
ture so those watching would
not know the gun bore no
load. He eyed the wicked
spikes and again smiled. On
each tip a sticky smear held
a thick powdering. The pow-
der would be dried leaves of
foxglove. Or had they found
something better? He smiled
again at more chatter of frus-
tratioii.

But he sharpened his senses
as he pushed on. He stopped
where the going grew sudden-
ly easy. They had cleared a
path; it invited him to bypass
a tangle of underbrush. He
looked to see that the over-
arching boughs did not hold
loops of vine ready to drop,
and took the path. Nothing.
But there had to be some-
thing. He pushed on, then
slowed, smelling dampness
that was not the dankness of
mold.

Ahead, the trail widened
into a clearing. In the center
of the clearing lay a patch of
spongy ground that could be
lethal quagmire. Yet the tracks
of a big woodchuck led
straight across the patch,
promising the ground would
hold. Something about the
tracks gave Jess Seely pause.
They had a dainty, yet drag-
ging, look.

liy EDWARD WELLEN

He read faint tracks on ei-
ther side of the patch and
knew what had taken place.
Not one but three woodchucks
had crossed the clearing to-
gether, abreast, almost in step.
Two had kept to the solid
ground on either side of the
bog, each holding in its jaws
one end of a fallen tree limb.
The big woodchuck in the
middle had ridden with the
bulk of his weight on that
support, making footprints
without sinking into the
mire.

Jess Seely smiled and skirt-
ed the patch.

He wondered vaguely why
the chatter he heard now
seemed to be chatter not of
frustration but of expectation.
He had no time for more than
vague wonder at that, and at
the sudden hush. The ground
— not ground but a covering
of dirt over a wickerwork of
branches — gave under ^ him.
His hands flung up, the gun
shot out of his grip. He fell.

HIS coming to was an in-
and-out thing, pulsing
awareness, intermitting dream.
The pit was deep. They
were good at digging. They
had patience. He nodded, and
blacked out.

He came to again. He lay
crumpled, a leg bent strangely
under him. He was helpless,
but they would not come right
away. They would not trust
him, they would wait to make
sure he was not playing help-
less. Then they would come.

They had patience.

He tightened himself
against the pain. This was
what he had worked toward,
and in any case it would have
been useless to have regrets.
He had no regrets. He had
been a good game warden. He
lapsed into unconsciousness
again, smiling.

The wait was long and he
knew he had passed through
a spell of delirium. There was
a timeless moment when it
seemed to him he came aware
in the past, reliving the start
of it. That had been the time
when, feeling a gnawing help-
lessness, seeing the day com-
ing when he would no longer
be there to save them from
his fellow man, he caught that
poacher. The poacher was too
busy to sense his approach,
busy cursing some animal
that had once again sprung
the trap and made off with the
bait.

He knew, in that long-ago
day, that it would be wasting
time to haul the man into
court. The local justice of the
peace would let him off with
a mild rebuke. So Jess Seely
booted the man out of the
wood, baited and reset the
trap and lay in wait.

At last a large raccoon
nosed into view, picked up a
piece of twig in a forepaw and
reached cautiously to stick it
into the trap. The trap
snapped shut its grin on noth-
ing. The raccoon v/as about to
make off with the bait when
Jess Seely remembered to

DEADLY GAME

move. He aimed his hypo-
dermic gun and shot the rac-
coon to sleep. He carried the
raccoon home — and that was
the start of Jess Seely’s pri-
vate, unauthorized and top-se-
cret psychological testing lab-
oratory.

The raccoon made an auspi-
cious first subject, quickly
mastering all sorts of release
mechanisms to escape from
puzzle boxes and to win re-
wards, learning to fit pegs
into holes and to tie knots.
The one stupidity was Jess
Seely’s. He had grown fond of
the raccoon — Bandido — a n d
he had let Bandido sense that.
It was lucky Jess Seely had
realized that at this early
stage, or the whole thing
would have gone for nothing.
He had to break Bandido of
his liking. He forced himself
to set about coldly instilling
in Bandido hate and fear of
man — any man.

Only when he felt sure he
had brought that about did he
free Bandido. He tagged
Bandido and released him into
the wild, then hunted other
promising subjects. There was
only one Bandido. Jess Seely
did not give any of the others
a name.

He did not dare.

He rigged more and more
sophisticated release mecha-
nisms, and in time was gradu-
ating animals that were able
to disarm any trap safely and,
before making off with the

bait, move the trap, reset it
and conceal it so the original
setter of the trap would step
into it. Other than a shot from
a trapper who thought the re-
setting was his doing, Jess
Seely had little trouble with
poachers after that.

At mating seasons he used
his capture-gun again to
bring together the brightest
of his subjects. And in thirty
years, thanks to training and
selective breeding, the wild-
life under his protection had
learned to deal with all traps,
set out sentries, string alarm
wires across trails, toss stones
to mislead hunters and put
hounds out of action and, with
earth or urine, fight fire.

Now he was clear in his
mind and he felt a humble
pride. He had set out to teach
them to guard their preserve,
to save themselves. He had
done a good job of this. He
had taught them well. He
heard them coming closer to
the rim of the pit. Now he
saw their eyes.

He fixed on one face. Old
Bandido! But that couldn’t
be. Old Bandido was long
dead. This was a son or a
grandson or a great-grandson.
In a sense they were all chil-
dren of Jess Seely.

No matter. They would have
no pity on him. He had
taught them well indeed, he
thought smiling,

END

by EDWARD WELLEN

IF • Short Story

THE HOPUTE

They were the mightiest warriors the
universe had ever known. All they .
lacked was something to live for!

By Richard

Sheridan

JORD awoke to the purr of
the ventilators billowing
the heavy curtains at the
doorway. Through them,
from the corridor, seeped the
cold, realistic, shadowless
light that seemed to sap the
color from man and matter
and leave only drabness and
emptiness.

His eyes were sandy with
sleep. He blinked. The optic
nerves readied for sight, pu-
pils focused, retina recorded.
The primordial fear of un-
familiar things disappeared
as he recognized the objects
in the room, identified wak-
ing as a natural phenomenon
and remembered the day’s
objectives.

He lay quietly on the pal-
let ; dimly conscious of

identity, clinging physically
to the temporal death vanish-
ing behind his opened eyes.
Pale light, swollen bladder,
sticky throat, quiescent body,
unimportant hunger, dim fear
of incipient living.

He felt for the cigarettes
on the floor beside his bed.
His careful, sleepy fingers
passed lightly over the ashy
ashtray and fell on wrinkled
cellophane. Dry tubes from a
synthetic Virginia. He shook
a cigarette from the pack and
lay with it jutting from his
lips. The steady, filtered,
odorless breeze centered on
his senseless frontal lobes and
whispered down his silver
checks,

A light. His hand crawled,
finger walking across the

crimson carpet to the group-
ing, found the metal tube and
flew back to his chest. He
fumbled with the trigger. His
muscles were lethargic and
he pressed it hard with a
childish impatience.

Perseverance.

Now the metal tip glowed
orange as the radioactive
motes in the tube destroyed
themselves with rigid self-
control. Careful suction, then,
and a cubic foot of tobacco
smoke howled down his esoph-
agus into his lungs, examined
each feathery cranny and left
by muscular contraction.

It tasted bad, but he’d ex-
pected that it would.

He didn’t have to smoke all
of it. The habit decently re-
quired only that he take a
puff, leave it smolder, take
another, allow himself to be
scorched and futilely try to
set the bed afire.

He watched the smoke be-
ing plucked from the air by
the purifiers to be expelled
with other smokes, smells and
gases into an atmosphere that
consisted of little else.

HIS last night’s pleasure
stirred, vainly fought
the inevitable and fluttered
its hands. “You awake. Sol-
dier?”

The room glowed with a
rosy light.

“Approximately.''

The woman uncoiled her-
self and lay flat. Through the
tangle of bronzed hair, one
ear shone w h i t e 1 y. She

brushed the hair from her
eyes and her scarlet mouth
opened in a feline yawn. The
woman was pink and white;
she quivered in voluptuous
ecstasy and slithered on the
satin with her own satiny,
round and naked flesh.

“I didn’t hear the alarm,”
she said, her voice thick with
the residue of sleep. Her
body pressed warm to his as
she slid his cigarette from his
fingers.

He shared the cigarette,
thinking of the distance be-
tween the bed and the bath-
room. The clock told him he
had eight minutes to wait for
maximum emission. His phys-
iological chart showed a tol-
erance of nine and one-third
hours.

Eight minutes to wait. Then
he would have twenty minutes
in which to shower, and fif-
teen to clothe himself in the
shimmering, clinging opaque
that, like the casing on a
sausage, would cover him,
leaving only his eyes, ears
and mouth. These the neu-
rologist would take care of
before the mechanics fitted
him into his machine for his
next tour of duty.

There was a time for eating,
time for a last cigarette, time
for briefing and a long, long
time for the Galbth II.

Time for everything but
living.

Gently he kissed the wom-
an’s soft neck. “What’s your
name?” he asked wistfully,
his attention divided between

by Richard Sheridan

the short gold hairs at the
base of her head and the all
important clock.

The woman chuckled
chidingly and toyed with his
hands, tracing the veins that
stood rigid on their backs
where the tortured nerves
had forced them to the sur-
face like a maze of pale blue
pipes.

She did not answer. He
could no more know her name
than he could know her face
behind the silver opaque —
than he could know her voice
behind the vocal distorter —
no more than he could know
anyone, or that anyone could
know him.

Three times a week the
Sex-Dispatcher sent him a
woman. For all he knew it
could be the same woman, or
three different women.

‘‘Can I tell the dispatcher
that I pleased you?" The
voice distorter had shifted
and made her sound as though
she had a cold. It was, of
course, impossible. That
scourge hadn’t attacked the
fortress in thirty years. In all
probability it would never
attack it again.

He nodded, grinding the
cigarette into the ashtray. “It
would be nice,” he said, “if
we could know one another.”

She smiled. “Some day.”

The clock gave warning,
counting backwards through
thirty seconds. Jord patted
the woman’s thigh in dismiss-
al. “You may as well go
now.”

SHE slid from the bed,
neither reluctant nor im-
patient. Her simple tunic lay
on the crimson rug where she
had dropped it nine hours be-
fore. “Good-by, Soldier,” she
said.

He was already on his way
to the bathroom. If he should
see her again, her yoice would
be different, her hair would
be different. She had no scars
or physical aberrance that he
could recognize her by. She
was healthy, intelligent and
normal, and therefore selected
for breeding. So was he. Ask
the geneticists. He had.

In the bathroom, the clock
told him to wash his face.
Carefully he rubbed desen-
sitizer on his mask, on the ten
thousand artificial nerve end-
ings that transcribed every
motion of the living tissue it
encased and magnified that
motion a thousand times to
the mightier motions of the
machine.

The desensitizer entered
the porous material; the mask
sagged and became transpar-
ent like a cellophane sack. He
lifted it from his face.

Two huge holes for eyes,
a gaping rent of a mouth. He
threw it with disgust into the
depository. It would go back
to the Neurological Division
to be cleaned and repaired.

He looked into the mirror
with the interest of a man
who sees his face on rare
occasions. The nerves stood
out like splintered cracks in
glass. He fingered his face

THE HOPLITE

lovingly, unmindful of the ag-
ony caused by his touch, re-
membering the woman. He
wondered in what manner her
face would differ from his.

The pain made him stop
thinking about it and he
closed his eyes to spray a
weak solution of desensitizer
on the burning flesh. Almost
immediately the pain was
gone ; but it left him with a
marble mask that wouldn’t
come to life again until the
effects of the desensitizer
wore off.

He washed quickly in warm
water, rubbed disinfectant on
the atrophied area, rinsed it
and stepped in front of the
dryer. A thousand tongues of
almost corporeal warmth
licked over his skin.

He had shaved and desen-
sitized his body the night be-
fore, so it was only a matter
of washing and disinfecting
before he clinibed into the
overall casing and stepped
clumsily into the sensitizing
shower. The huge bag began
to shrink and cloud, adhering
to his body as though it were
another layer of his skin.

Since the casing acted as a
magnifying extension of his
nervous and muscular sys-
tems, his body, within the
casing, felt nothing. There
was no sense of contact as he
walked aross the floor and
opened the bathroom door. As
far as feeling went, he was
without a body.

He said “hello” experimen-
tally, to see if the distorter

was still on. It wasn’t. The
hard flatness of his voice sur-
prised him. The rosy light
was gone also. Something pe-
culiar to women caused the
filter to slide over the coldly
glowing silver. No man could
cause it. No warrior was sup-
posed to want to.

He went through the cur-
tains into the tube-like
corridor and joined the oth-
er silver warriors on their
way to the mess hall. He
knew no one of them, yet
knew them all. In battle, no
friend of his would die, yet
no one would die that he did
not know. Two hundred years
of war in this forgotten bit
of the universe had shown
the value of this. Some day,
if he lived to be old, he would
become a civilian. Until then
the only faces he would see
would be his ov/n and those
of the subnormal servers in
the mess hall. He had no
loyalties except to the for-
tress. The fortress was his
past, present and future.

He nodded a greeting to his
server. “How are you today,
Teddy?” The voice distorter
madp him a gentle baritone.

The moron stared at him
blankly, not understanding
what was spoken, not caring.
It was mentally impossible
for him to care about anyone
and psychologically impossi-
ble for anyone to care about
him. That was why he was
allowed to serve in the mess.
He set Jord’s rations before

by Richard Sheridan

him in their plastic contain-
ers. A scientific measure of
calories, proteins, vitamins,
minerals and hay-like rough-
age.

Jord wished the idiot was
able to talk, but decided
against holding a one-sided
conversation with him. He
used to do it quite often,
taking pleasure in the shift-
ing planes of his face, until
he'd become sick with longing
for a complete human being.
He knew no one and only his
psychiatrist knew him. The
fortress was to him one com-
plete body.

The parts of that body
could never be allowed to be-
come more important than the
total of those parts. It was
the first thing a potential
master of a Galbth II learned:
The basic lesson in loneliness.

He choked down the meas-
ured kilograms of roughage,
saving the concentrates until
the last when he could suck
out the synthetic flavoring
and delude himself for a mo-
ment that he was eating food.
His fare consisted of the pre-
cise amount necessary to keep
him operating at maximum ef-
ficiency and maintain opti-
mum size. A two-pound var-
iation in his weight would re-
quire a refitting.

He smoked his last ciga-
rette for the day and then
made his way to the third
section briefing room.

There were twelve warriors
in his section. Except for mi-
croscopic differences in their

builds, there was little, if
anything, to distinguish one
from the other. They had no
contact with anything as per-
sonalized as officers. Each
warrior was a separate unit.
The centralization of author-
ity was complete. There was
only the loudspeaker to com-
mand. For a time the warriors
had been allowed to designate
the voice as '‘The General,"
but it was soon discovered
that they felt a particular
loyalty to the name. The word
was dropped. To designate
authority, a warrior used the
word: "Authority." This
word also served as his offi-
cial concept of politics. With
all the strength of the for-
tress in the warriors, this was
to be desired.

Simultaneously, the speaker
and the large television screen
below it came to life.

The scene showed one of
the fortress’s carefully
tilled roughage farnjs being
looted by a large body of the
natives — the enemy that was
determined to erase the last
remnant of an empire that
once held the entire solar
system in its grasp. That
meant nothing to Jord. It was
the faces — the faces that were,
relatively, not even faces at
all. Yet there were points of
similarity within the gulf of
difference — and the faces.
Faces without masks!

The voice called "Author-
ity" was expressionless and
precise.

THE HOPLITE

^As you can see* a large
and heavily armed contingent
of the enemy has breached
the dome of number seven
surface-farm.”

The scout obligingly
swiveled his television optic
to show the fused gap in the
huge plastic dome through
which the natives were haul-
ing incendiary materials to
destroy the crop. The motion-
less bulk of a warrior lay
close beside the opening. He
had been downed by artillery,
while above the force-field
the ever present aircraft of
the natives circled watchful-
ly. Somewhere, the ancient
generators had shorted long
enough for the raiders to slip
through.

detachment has already
been sent out,” the voice con-
tinued. “The natives are to be
forced back beyond the north-
ern defense perimeter. Intelli-
gence estimates eight hundred
of the enemy and thirty field-
pieces. The fortress depends
on you. You will not fail the
fortress.”

On that note, the loudspeak-
er was silent.

‘Tt seems to me,” the war-
rior on Jord’s right murmured
as they moved towards the
opening bulkhead at the far
side of the room, ”that we
almost always fail.” He wasn’t
contradicting, only remark-
ing.

Jord nodded. One warrior
lost today, two last week, one
the week before, and more be-
fore that. He saw the levia-

thans, 140 tons of machinery
with great gaping holes in
their bodies, saw the wires
and conduits, armor and all
the intricacies that went into
a Galbth II. He saw them
steaming, stumbling, falling
— respirators clogged — smoth-
ering. Their motions weak-
ened, their limbs failed, the
warriors died.

Two hundred years ago the
planet had been a peaceful
colony. Then with the col-
lapse of the empire had come
two hundred years of rever-
sals, and they who had once
been the overseers of harmless
workers now found themselves
struggling for the barest sur-
vival. Only the workers, the
natives, had adapted.

He went through the bulk-
head into the immenseness of
the cavern where the machines
stood waiting in the shadow-
less light.

Down the iron catwalks
the silver warriors* ran. Down
to the mechanics, down to the
surgeons with their surgeon
fingers dead white beneath
the operating lamps. All
waiting. Waiting to fit the
mechanism for a thousand
eyes to the optic nerves, the
amplifiers to the audio.

JORD felt the familiar hor-
ror.

When you were fitted with
the conduits for optics and
audios, you lost all contact
with reality. You became a
consciousness in nothing. His
great fear at this time was of

by Richard Sheridan

falling. He seemed to fall for
eons until the mechanics with
steel hands slid him into his
machine and, bit by bit, his
body returned.

Fingers, hands, wrists, arms,
feet, legs, shoulders, back,
neck, jaw, cheeks, nose,
eyes —

His cranial optics slid from
their sockets within the blue
steel skin of his head, and he
looked down to the floor of
the cavern, seventy feet be-
low.

‘‘Check motion?”

He moved in the ritual bal-
let. Seventy feet and 140 tons
of steel and glass, copper and
nickel, silver and plastic, and
a man buried deep inside.

The ultimate machine. The
ultimate extension of a man.

A ton of fist opened and
closed, moved with effortless
grace and fell to his side with
enough power to crush a
block of granite. His atomic
muscles turned silently when
he walked. His legs of flesh
commanding legs of steel. He
could walk two hundred miles
an hour or run five times that
fast. He could thread a needle
with his fingers, or rip
through a mountain.

“Check respirators.”

“Check.”

The technicians scurried
from the cavern floor. The
all-clear sounded and the roof
slid open and a ramp grew
up from the floor.

His voice echoed through
the cavern, mingling with the
voices of the other warriors*

Joyous, thankful voices — the
horror had passed and they
were alive again.

On the surface it was win-
ter. The m e t h a n e-frosted
ground beneath the machines
was like iron. Iron against
steel feet rang in the heavy
air. Wispy tendrils of steam
rose from the great bodies.
The respirators sucked and
transformed ammonia and
methane. The great feet left
imprints in earth and ^tone.

Jord exulted in the freedom
of the surface, iw the long
vistas of unwalled space, in
the curve of a far away hori-
zon. He exulted in his machine
body, so human in its parts,
so more than human in its
size and capabilities. The
column of the neck, the steel
sinews ; every muscle, every
ligament, every nerve of the
human body had its counter-
part in the machine. What
man could do, the machine
did. What affected man, in
proportion, affected the ma-
chine.

Even to pain, the machine
was complete.

He withdrew his optics and
sent his telescope rising ten
feet above his head, searching
the gray land for the other
detachment. A dozen miles
away he could see the dome
of the ravished farm. The
little specks were scurrying
to complete their destruction
before the dreaded warriors
should appear. They had
blocked the entrance of the
shallow valley in which the

THE HOPLITE

farm lay with their artillery.
Behind it the gunners would
try to hold off the warriors
and give the rest time to es-
cape. Not that it mattered.
The enemy cared little for
his losses.

His telescope swiveled,
found the scarp of an ancient
bomb, ringed with what was
probably fission produced ob-
sidian, and rested on the bod-
ies of the machines who had
beaten his detachment to the
scene and now came stream-
ing out to join them.

The two detachments
merged, hesitated as each
warrior assumed his position
and began the attack.

They would charge straight
at the guns, so much a war-
rior cared for the marksman-
ship of former slaves — so
much a warrior cared for the
power of native shells.

AT eight miles the snouts
of the cannons began to
belch. The gunnery was high.
The barrage passed harmless-
ly overhead.

The first strike was for
him. The armor-piercing shell
clanged and flattened out
against his chest, staggering
him back. He rallied, caught
his balance, sped on. He al-
most pitied the limited in-
ventiveness of the natives,
whose genius ended when
they drove man into the for-
tresses.

Another shell. A warrior
whirled and stumbled. Jord
crashed into him^ steadied

him. The explosions blended
into an endless sound.

He felt a shell bounce from
his shoulder, taking six op-
tics with it and leaving the
smell of scorched steel. They
were too thick now to dodge,
too close to bear. Earth and
stone sprayed up from a sud-
den crater before him. He
wheeled. Now they were in a
range where the shells could
disable an arm or leg.

An arm! A stiff-hung, mo-
tionless limb of steel.

The rush had brought them
to the artillery. Their feet
trampled the ancient guns.
They smashed at belching
muzzles with hammer fists.
They had breached the de-
fenses. The natives had fled.
In minutes they would be
trampling the fleeing enemy.

Then the earth erupted...

Jord had only one leg still
functioning when he regained
consciousness. One leg and
perhaps eight of his optics.
His audio was dead and there
was something wrong with
his respirator. He had to fight
to keep down the panic.

A warrior who had been
trapped inside his machine
once told him what it was
like inside a Galbth II when
you couldn’t move, or help
yourself. If you but closed
your eyes you imagined your-
self inside a shell, and that
shell inside a larger shell,
and that inside a still larger
shell until, after a hundred
shells, you could imagine
your machine, still true to

by Richard Sheridan

your form, lying helpless and
twisted on the ground.

There was no way you
could get out of your ma-
chine without the help of the
mechanics. Even if there were
it' was impossible to exist on
the surface. You had to lie
where you fell. Or, if possi-
ble, make your way back as
best you could to your lock.

He tried moving. His good
leg sawed the air like a giant
flail. There was some motion
in his chest, but that was all.
He erected all the optics he
could control and found him-
self lying on his stomach, dis-
membered. About twenty
yards to the right he saw the
other leg of his machine ly-
ing across a warrior who
seemed to have no motion at
all. As far as he could see, no
one had escaped. Warriors
and parts of warriors were
strewn all about him. He
swiveled his optics in anxi-
ety. If he were to be rescued,
it must be soon. Already the
air was foul and he was hav-
ing trouble focusing his op-
tics.

He wanted to get out of the
machine. He never wanted
anything as much as he want-
ed this. The smell of metal
and the taste of metal stran-
gled him. He wanted to get
out. Worse than he wanted
faces, worse than he wanted
identity, worse than he want-
ed to be able to live on the
surface. He could feel all the
weight of the machine on his
body. The vocalizer was still
THE HOPLITE

on and he moaned into the
dirt.

He tried to raise his optics
again, but the power had
somehow failed. Many-faced,
congealing darkness drew
near. He rushed into it.

The Genocide Squad was
the first to go into the
crater.

The last warrior had ceased
moving. Later the salvagers
would come to collect the pre-
cious metals. They drilled
Jord’s machine open but,
luckily, by this time he was
dead.

“Which one next?’' he
asked, clambering awkward-
ly from the hole in* the ma-
chine's back. He was a native
and, except for certain func-
tional differences in his con-
struction, was little distin-
guished from other natives.
But normalcy is relative. The
normalcy of a native may be
radically different from that
of a fortress dweller.

“We are fortunate the
bomb didn’t destroy more of
these b o d i e s," he said, re-
joining his partner at the side
of the warrior.

“What is it like, inside?"
his partner asked curiously.

The Genocide Monitor
stopped for a moment and ap-
praised the vast bulk. He had
long ago ceased to be either
fascinated or repelled by the
soft, unfunctional bodies of
fortress dwellers.

“Just another human," the
android said. END

■ ■ ■

The machine was not perfect. It could be tricked.

THE

64-SQUARE

by FRITZ LEIBER

SILENTLY, so as not to
shock anyone with illu-
sions about well dressed
young women, Sandra Lea
Grayling cursed the day she
had persuaded the Chicago
Space Mirror that there would
be all sorts of human interest
stories to be picked up at the
first international grandmas-
ter chess tournament in which

an electronic computing ma-
chine was entered.

Not that there weren't
enough humans around, it was
the interest that was in doubt.
The large hall was crammed
with energetic dark-suited
men of whom a disproportion-
ately large number were bald,
wore glasses, were faintly un-
tidy and indefinably shabby,

WmWm\WmWmWm\Wm'

It could make mistakes. And it could learn!

MADHOUSE

ILLUSTRATED BY BURNS

had Slavic or Scandinavian on walls, small peg-in sets
features, and talked foreign dragged from side pockets and
languages. manipulated rapidly as part of

They yakked interminably, the conversational ritual and
The only ones who didn’t still smaller folding sets in
were scurrying individuals which the pieces were the tiny
with the eager-zombie look of magnetized disks used for
officials. playing in free-fall.

Chess sets were everywhere There were signs featuring
— big ones on tables, still big- largely mysterious combina-
ger diagram-type electric ones tions of letters: FIDE, WBM,

THE 64.SQUARE MADHOUSE

USCF, USSF, USSR and
UNESCO. Sandra felt fairly
sure about the last three.

The many clocks, bedside
table size, would have struck
a familiar note except that
they had little red flags and
wheels sprinkled over their
faces and they were all in
pairs, two clocks to a case.
That Siamese-twin clocks
should be essential to a chess
tournament struck Sandra as
a particularly maddening cir-
cumstance.

Her last assignment had
been to interview the
pilot pair riding the first
American manned circum-lu-
nar satellite — and the five al-
ternate pairs who hadn’t made
the flight. This tournament
hall seemed to Sandra much
further out of the world.

Overheard scraps of con-
versation in reasonably intel-
ligible English were not par-
ticularly helpful. Samples:
“They say the Machine has
been programmed to play
nothing but pure Barcza Sys-
tem and Indian Defenses — and
the Dragon Formation if any-
one pushes the King Pawn.”
“Hah! In that case. . .”

“The Russians have come
with ten trunkfuls of prepared
variations and they’ll gang up
on the Machine at adjourn-
ments. What can one New Jer-
sey computer do against four
Russian grandmasters?”

“I heard the Russians have
been programmed— -with hyp-
notic cramming and somno-

briefing. Votbinnik had a
nervous breakdown.”

“Why, the Machine hasn’t
even a Haupturnier or an in-
tercollegiate won. It’ll over its
head be playing.”

“Yes, but maybe like Capa
at San Sebastian or Morphy
or Willie Angler at New
York. The Russians will look
like potzers.”

“Have you studied the
scores of the match between
Moon Base and Circum-Ter-
ra?”

“Not worth the trouble. The
play was feeble. Barely Ex-
pert Rating.”

Sandra’s chief difficulty
was that she knew absolutely
nothing about the game of
chess — a point that she had
slid over in conferring with
the powers at the Space Mir-
ror, but that now had begun
to weigh on her. How wonder-
ful it would be, she dreamed,
to walk out this minute, find
a quiet bar and get pie-eyed
in an evil, ladylike way.

“Perhaps mademoiselle
would welcome a drink?”

“You’re durn tootin’ she
would!” Sandra replied in a
rush, and then looked down
apprehensively at the person
who had read her thoughts.

It was a small sprightly eld-
erly man who looked like a
somewhat thinned down Peter
Lorre — there was that same
impression of the happy Slavic
elf. What was left of his white
hair was cut very short, mak-
ing a silvery nap. His pince-
nez had quite thick lenses.

hy FRITZ LEIBER

But in sharp contrast to the
somberly clad men around
them, he was wearing a pearl-
gray suit of almost exactly the
same shade as Sandra’s — a cir-
cumstance that created for her
the illusion that they were fel-
low conspirators.

‘'Hey, wait a minute,” she
protested just the same. He
had already taken her arm and
was piloting her toward the
nearest flight of low wide
stairs. “How did you know I
wanted a drink?”

“I could see that mademoi-
selle was having difficulty
swallowing,” he replied, keep-
ing them moving. “Pardon me
for feasting my eyes on your
lovely throat.”

“I didn’t suppose they’d
serve drinks here.”

“But of course.”. They were
already mounting the stairs.
“What would chess be with-
out coffee or schnapps?”
“Okay, lead on,” Sandra
said. “You’re the doctor.”
“Doctor?” He smiled wide-
ly. “You know, I like being
called that.”

“Then the name is yours as
long as you want it — Doc.”

Meanwhile the happy

little man had edged
them into the first of a small
cluster of tables, where a
dark-suited jabbering trio was
just rising. He snapped his
fingers and hissed through
his teeth. A white-aproned
waiter materialized.

“For myself black coffee,”
he said. “For mademoiselle

rhine wine and seltzer?”

“That’d go fine.” Sandra
leaned back. “Confidentially,
Doc, I was having trouble
swallowing. . .well, just about
everything here.”

He nodded. “You are not
the first to be shocked and
horrified by chess,” he as-
sured her. “It is a curse of
the intellect. It is a game for
lunatics — or else it creates
them. But what brings a sane
and beautiful young lady to
this 64-square madhouse?”

Sandra briefly told him her
storv and her predicament. By
the time they were served.
Doc had absorbed the one and
assessed the other.

“You have one great advan-
tage,” he told her. “You know
nothing whatsoever of chess —
so you will be able to write
about it understandably for
your readers.” He swallowed
half his demitasse and
smacked his lips. “As for the
Machine — you do know, I sup-
pose, that it is not a humanoid
metal robot, walking about
clanking and squeaking like a
late medieval knight in ar-
mor?”

“Yes, Doc, but...” Sandra
found difficulty in phrasing
the question.

^ “Wait.” He lifted a finger.
‘T think I know what you’re
going to ask. You want to
know why, if the Machine
works at all, it doesn’t work
perfectly, so that it always
wins and there is no contest.
Right?”

Sandra grinned and nodded.

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

Dot’s ability to interpret her
mind was as comforting^ as the
bubbly, mildly astringent mix-
ture she was sipping.

He removed his pince-nez,
massaged the bridge of his
nose and replaced them.

/If you had,” he said, ‘'a
billion computers all as fast
as the Machine, it would take
them all the time there ever
will be in the universe just to
play through all the possible
games of chess, not to men-
tion the time needed to classi-
fy those games into branching
families of wins for White,
wins for Black and draws, and
the additional time required
to trace out chains of key-
moves leading always to wins.
So the Machine can’t play
chess like God. What the Ma-
chine can do is examine all
the likely lines of play for
about eight moves ahead —
that is, four moves each for
White and Black — and then
decide which is the best move
on the basis of capturing en-
emy pieces, working toward
checkmate, establishing a pow-
erful central position and so
on.

sounds like the
A way a man would play
a game,” Sandra observed.
‘"Look ahead a little way and
try to make a plan. You know,
like getting out trumps in
bridge or setting up a fi-
nesse.”

“Exactly!” Doc beamed at
her approvingly. “The Ma-
chine is like a man, A rather

peculiar and not exactly pleas-
ant man. A man who always
abides by sound principles,
who is utterly incapable of
flights of genius, but who
never makes a mistake. You
see, you are finding human
interest already, even in the
Machine.”

Sandra nodded. “Does a hu-
man chess player — a grand-
master, I mean — ever look
eight moves ahead in a game?”

“Most assuredly he does!
In crucial situations, say
where there’s a chance of win-
ning at once by trapping the
enemy king, he examines many
more moves ahead than that
— thirty or forty even. The
Machine is probably pro-
grammed to recognize such
situations and do something
of the same sort, though we
can’t be sure from the infor-
mation World Business Ma-
chines has released. But in
most chess positions the pos-
sibilities are so very nearly
unlimited that even a grand-
master can only look a very
few moves ahead and must
rely on his judgment and ex-
perience and artistry. The
equivalent of those in the Ma-
chine is the directions fed
into it before it plays a game.”

“You mean the program-
ming?”

“Indeed yes! The program-
ming is the crux of the prob-
lem of the chess-playing com-
puter. The first practical mod-
el, reported by Bernstein and
Roberts of IBM in 1958 and
which looked four moves

by FRITZ LEIBER

ahead, was programmed so
that it had a greedy worried
tendency to grab at enemy
pieces and to retreat its own
whenever they were attacked.
It had a personality like that
of a certain kind of chess-
playing dub — a dull-brained
woodpusher afraid to take the
slightest risk of losing materi-
al— ^but a dub who could al-
most always beat an utter nov-
ice. The^ WBM machine here
in the hall operates about a
million times as fast. Don’t
ask me how, I’m no physicist,
but it depends on the new
transistors and something they
call hypervelocity, which in
turn depends on keeping parts
of the Machine at a tempera-
ture near absolute zero. How-
ever, the result is that the
Machine can see eight moves
ahead and is capable of being
programmed much more craft-
ily.”

'‘A million times as fast as
the first machine, you say.
Doc? And yet it only sees
twice as many moves ahead?”
Sandra objected.

“There is a geometrical pro-
gression involved there,” he
told her with a smile. “Believe
me, eight moves ahead is a lot
of moves when you remember
that the Machine is errorlessly
examining every one of thou-
sands of variations. Flesh-and
blood chess masters have lost
games by blunders they could
have avoided by looking only
one or two moves ahead. The
Machine will make no such
oversights. Once again, you

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

see, you have the human fac-
tor, in this case working for
the Machine.”

“Savilly, I have been look-
ing allplace for you!”

A stocky, bull-faced man
with a great bristling shock of
black, gray-flecked hair had
halted abruptly by their table.
He bent over Doc and began
to whisper explosively in a
guttural foreign tongue.

SANDRA’S gaze traveled
beyond the balustrade. Now
that she could look down at it,
the central hall seemed less
confusedly crowded. In the
middle, toward the far end,
were five small tables spaced
rather widely apart and with a
chessboard and men and one
of the Siamese clocks set out
on each. To either side of the
hall were tiers of temporary
seats, about half of them oc-
cupied. There were at least as
many more people still wan-
dering about.

On the far wall was a big
electric scoreboard and also,
above the corresponding ta-
bles, five large dully glassy
chessboards, the White
squares in light gray, the
Black squares in dark.

One of the five wall chess-
boards was considerably larger
than the other four — the one
above the Machine.

Sandra looked with quicken-
ing interest at the console of
the Machine — a bank of keys
and some half-dozen panels of
rows and rows of tiny telltale
lights, all dark at the moment.

A thick red velvet cord on lit-
tle brass standards ran around
the Machine at a distance of
about ten feet. Inside the cord
were only a few gray-
smocked men. Two of them
had just laid a black cable to
the nearest chess table and
were attaching it to the Sia-
mese clock.

Sandra tried to think of a
being who always checked
everything, but only within
limits beyond which his
thoughts never ventured, and
who never made a mistake. . .

“Miss Grayling! May I pre-
sent to you Igor Jandorf.”

She turned back quickly
with a smile and a nod.

‘T should tell you, Igor,”
Doc continued, “that Miss
Grayling represents a large
and influential Midwestern
newspaper. Perhaps you have
a message for her readers.”
The shock-h e a d e d man’s
eyes flashed. “I most certainly
do !” At that moment the wait-
er arrived with a second cof-
fee and wine-and seltzer. Jan-
dorf seized Doc’s new demi-
tasse, drained it, set it back on
the tray with a flourish and
drew himself up.

your readers. Miss
A Grayling,” he pro-
claimed, fiercely arching his
eyebrows at her and actually
slapping his chest, “that I,
Igor Jandorf, will defeat the
Machine by the living force of
my human personality ! Al-
ready I have offered to play it
an informal game blindfold—

I, who have played 50 blind-
fold games simultaneously !
Its owners refuse me. I have
challenged it also to a few
games of rapid-transit — an
offer no true grandmaster
would dare ignore. Again they
refuse me. I predict that the
Machine will play like a great
oaf — at least against me. Re-
peat: I, Igor Jandorf, by the
living force of my human per-
sonality, will defeat the Ma-
chine. Do you have that? You
can remember it?”

“Oh yes,” Sandra assured
him, “but there are some other
questions I very much want to
ask you, Mr. Jandorf.”

“I am sorry. Miss Grayling,
but I must clear my mind now.
In ten minutes they start the
clocks.”

While Sandra arranged for
an interview with Jandorf af-
ter the day’s playing session^
Doc reordered his coffee.

“One expects it of Jandorf,’*
he explained to Sandra with a
philosophic shrug when the
shock-headed man was gone.
“At least he didn’t take your
wine-and-seltzer. Or did he?
One tip I have for you: don’t
call a chess master Mister, call
him Master. They all eat it
up.”

“Gee, Doc, I don’t know
how to thank you for every-
thing. I hope I haven’t offend-
ed Mis — Master Jandorf so

that he doesn’t — ”

-»>

“Don’t worry about that.
Wild horses couldn’t keep
Jandorf away from a press
interview. You know, his

by FRITZ LEIBER

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

rapid-transit challenge was
cunning. That’s a minor varie-
ty of chess where each player
gets only ten seconds to make
a move. Which I don’t -sup-
pose would give the Machine
time to look three moves
ahead. Chess players would
say that the Machine has a
very slow sight of the board.
This tournament is being
played at the usual interna-
tional rate of 15 moves an
hour, and — ”

‘Ts that why they’ve got all
those crazy clocks?” Sandra
interrupted.

“Oh, yes. Chess clocks meas-
ure the time each player
takes in making his moves.
When a player makes a move
he presses a button that shuts
his clock off and turns his op-
ponent’s on. If a player uses
too much time, he loses as
surely as if he were checkmat-
ed. Now since the Machine
will almost certainly be pro-
grammed to take an equal
amount of time on successive
moves, a rate of 15 moves an
hour means it will have 4 min-
utes a move — and it will need
every second of them ! Inci-
dentally it was typical Jan-
dorf bravado to make a point
of a blindfold challenge — just
as if the Machine weren’t play-
ing blindfold itself. Or is the
Machine blindfold? How do
you think of it?”

“Gosh , I don’t know. Say,
Doc, is it really true that Mas-
ter Jandorf has played 50
games at once blindfolded? I
can’t believe that.’'

course not!” Doc as-
sured her. “It was only
49 and he lost two of those
and drew five. Jandorf always
exaggerates. It’s in his blood.”

“He’s one of the Russians,
isn’t he ?” Sandra asked.
“Igor?”

Doc chuckled. “Not exact-
ly,” he said gently. “He is
originally a Pole and now he
has Argentinian citizenship.
You have a program, don’t
you?”

Sandra started to hunt
through her pocketbook, but
just then two lists of names
lit up on the big electric
scoreboard.

THE PLAYERS
William Angler, USA
Bela Grabo, Hungary
Ivan Jal, USSR
Igor Jandorf, Argentina
Dr. S. Krakatower, France
Vassily Lysmov, USSR
The Machine, USA (pro-
grammed by Simon Great)
Maxim Serek, USSR
Moses Sherevsky, USA
Mikhail Votbinnik, USSR
Tournament Director: Dr. Jan
Vanderhoef

FIRST ROUND PAIRINGS
Sherevski vs. Serek
Jal vs. Angler
Jandorf vs. Votbinnik
Lysmov vs. Krakatower
Grabo vs. Machine

“Gripes, Doc, they all sound
like they were Russians,” San-
dra said after a bit. “Except
this Willie Angler. Oh, he’s

by FR4TZ LEfBCfl

the boy wonder, isn’t he?’'

Doc nodded. ‘‘Not such a
boy any longer, though. He’s
. . . Well, speak of the Devil’s
children... Miss Grayling, I
have the honor of presenting
to you the only grandmaster
ever to have been ex-chess-
champion of the United States
while still technically a mi-
nor— Master William Augus-
tus Angler.”

A tall, sharply-dressed
young man with a hatchet face
pressed the old man back into
his chair.

‘‘How are you. Savvy, old
boy old boy?” he demanded.
“Still chasing the girls, I see.”
“Please, Willie, get off me.”
“Can’t take it, huh?” Angler
straightened up somewhat.
“Hey waiter ! Where’s that
chocolate malt? I don’t want
it next year. About that ex-,
though. I was swindled. Sav-
vy. I was robbed.”

“Willie!” Doc said with
some asperity. “Miss Grayling
is a journalist. She would like
to have a statement from you
as to how you will play
against the Machine.”

Angler grinned and
shook his head sadly.
“Poor old Machine,” he said.
“I don’t know why they take
so much trouble polishing up
that pile of tin just so that I
can give it a hit in the head. I
got a hatful of moves it’ll burn
out all its tubes trying to an-
swer. And if it gets too fresh,
how about you and me giving
its loW-temperature section

THE 64-6QUARE MADHOUSE

the hotfoot. Savvy? The mon-
ey WBM’s putting up is okay,
though. That first prize will
just fit the big hole in my
bank account.”

“I know you haven’t the
time now. Master Angler,”
Sandra said rapidly, “but if
after the playing session you
could grant me — ”

“Sorry, babe,” Angler broke
in with a wave of dismissal.
“I’m dated up ft>r two months
in advance. Waiter! I’m here,
not there !” And he went
charging off.

Doc and Sandra looked at
each other and smiled.

“Chess masters aren’t exact-
ly humble people, are they?”
she said.

Doc’s smile became tinged
with sad understanding. “You
must excuse them, though,” he
said. “They really get so lit-
tle recognition or recompense.
This tournament is an excep-
tion. And it takes a great deal
of ego to play greatly.”

“I suppose so. So World
Business Machines is respon-
sible for this tournament?”
“Correct. Their advertising
department is interested in
the pfestige. They want to
score a point over their great
rival.”

“But if the Machine plays
badly it will be a black eye
for them,” Sandra pointed out.

“True,” Doc agreed thought-
fully. “WBM must feel very
sure. . . It’s the prize money
they’ve put up, of course,
that’s brought the world’s
greatest players here. Other-

wise half of them would be
holding off in the best tem-
peramental-artist style. For
chess players the prize money
is fabulous — ^$35,000, with
$15,000 for first place, and all
expenses paid for all players.
There’s never been anything
like it. Soviet Russia is the
only country that has ever
supported and rewarded her
best chess players at all ade-
quately. I think the Russian
players are here because UN-
ESCO and FIDE (that’s Fed-
eration Internationale d e s
E c h e c s — the international
chess organization) are also
backing the tournament. And
perhaps because the Kremlin
is hungry for a little prestige
now that its space program is
sagging.”

‘‘But if a Russian doesn’t
take first place it will be a
black eye for them.”

Doc frowned. ‘‘True, in a
sense. They must feel very
sure... Here they are now.”

Four men were crossing
the center of the hall, which
was clearing, toward the tables
at the other end. Doubtless
they just happened to be go-
ing two by two in close for-
mation, but it gave Sandra the
feeling of a phalanx.

“The first two are Lysmov
and Votbinnik,” Doc told her.
“It isn’t often that you see
the current champion of the
world — Votbinnik — and an ex-
champion arm in arm. There
are two other persons in the
tournament who have held that

honor — Jal and Vanderhoef
the director, way back.”

“Will whoever wins this
tournament become cham-
pion?”

“Oh no. That’s decided by
two-player matches — a very
long business — after elimina-
tion tournaments between
leading contenders. This tour-
nament is a round robin : each
player plays one game with
every other player. That
means nine rounds.”

“Anyway there are an awful
lot of Russians in the tourna-
ment,” Sandra said, consulting
her program. “Four out of ten
have USSR after them. And
Bela Grabo, Hungary — that’s
a satellite. And Sherevsky and
Krakatower are Russian-
sounding names.”

“The proportion of Soviet
to American entries in the
tourneiment represents pretty
fairly the general difference
in playing strength between
the two countries,” Doc said
judiciously. “Chess mastery
moves from land to land with
the years. Way back it was
the Moslems and the Hindus
and Persians. Then Italy and
Spain. A little over a hundred
years ago it was France and
England. Then Germany, Aus-
tria and the New World. Now
it’s R u s s i a- — including of
course the Russians who have
run away from Russia, But
don’t think there aren’t a lot
of good Anglo-Saxon types
who are masters of the first
water. In fact, there are a lot
of them here around us.

Wn FfiiTZ L€IBEn

though perhaps you don’t
think so. It’s just that if you
play a lot of chess you get to
looking Russian. Once it prob-
ably made you look Italian.
Do you see that short bald-
headed man?”

“You mean the one facing
the Machine and talking to
Jandorf ?”

“Yes. Now that’s one with a
lot of human interest. Moses
Sherevsky. Been champion of
the United States many times.
A very strict Orthodox Jew.
Can’t play chess on Fridays
or on Saturdays before sun-
down.” He chuckled. “Why,
there’s even a storv going
around that one rabbi told
Sherevsky it would be unlaw-
ful for him to play against
the Machine because it is tech-
n i c a 1 1 y a golem — the clay
Frankenstein’s monster of He-
brew legend.”

Sandra asked, “What about
Grabo and Kratower?”

DOC gave a short scornful
laugh. “Krakatower! Don’t
pay any attention to him. A
senile has-been, it’s a scandal
he’s been allowed to play in
this tournament ! He must
have pulled all sorts of
strings. Told them that his
lifelong services to chess had
won him the honor and that
they had to have a member of
the so-called Old Guard.
Maybe he even got down on
his knees and cried — and all
the time his eyes on that ex-
pense money and the last*
place consolation prize! Yet

TM€ .e4-6ai#ARC MADHOU8C

dreaming schizophrenically of
beating them all ! Please, don’t
get me started on Dirty Old
Krakatower.”

“Take it easy. Doc. He
sounds like he would make
an interesting article. ' Can
you point him out to me?”

“You can tell hirrl bv his
long white beard with coffee
stains. I don’t see it any-
where, though. Perhaps he’s
shaved it off for the occa-
sion. It would be like that
antique womanizer to develop
senile delusions of youthful-
ness.”

“And Grabo?” Sandra
pressed, suppressing a smile
at the intensity of Doc’s ani-
mosity.

Doc’s eyes grew thoughtful.
“About Bela Grabo (why are
three out of four Hungarians
named Bela?) I will tell you
only this: That he is a very
brilliant player and that the
Machine is very lucky to have
drawn him as its first oppo-
nent.”

He would not amplify his
statement. Sandra studied the
scoreboard again.

“This Simon Great who’s
down as programming the
Machine. He’s a famous physi-
cist, I suppose?”

“By no means. That was the
trouble with some of the early
chess-playing machines — they
were programmed by scien-
tists. No, Simon Great is a
psychologist who at one time
was a leading contender for
the world’s chess champion-
ship. I think WBM was sur-

prisingly shrewd to pick him
for the programming job. Let
me tell you — No, better
yet — ’’

Doc shot to his feet,
stretched an arm on high and
called out sharply, ‘'Simon !”
A man some four tables
away waved back and a mo-
ment later came over.

“What is it, Savilly?” he
asked. “There’s hardly any
time, you know.”

The newcomer was of mid-
dle height, compact of
figure and feature, with gray-
ing hair cut short and combed
sharply back.

Doc spoke his piece for
Sandra.

Simon Great smiled thinly.
“Sorry,” he said, “But I am
making no predictions and we
are giving out no advance in-
formation on the program-
ming of the Machine. As you
know, I have had to fight the
Players’ Committee tooth and
nail on all sorts of points
about that and they have won
most of them. I am not per-
mitted to re-program the Ma-
chine at adjournments— only
between games (I did insist
on that and get it!) And if
the Machine breaks down dur-
ing a game, its clock keeps
running on it. My men are
permitted to make repairs — if
they can work fast enough.”
“That makes it very tough
Oil you,” Sandra put in. “The
Machine isn’t allowed any
weaknesses.”

Great nodded soberly. “And

now I must go. They’ve al-
most finished the count-down,
as one of my technicians keeps
on calling it. Very pleased to
have met. you. Miss Grayling
— I’ll check with our PR man
on that interview. Be seeing
you. Savvy.”

The tiers of seats were
filled now and the central
space almost clear. Officials
were shooing off a few knots
of lingerers. Several of the
grandmasters, including all
four Russians, were seated at
their tables. Press and com-
pany cameras were flashing.
The four smaller wallboards
lit Up with the pieces in the
opening position — ^white for
White and red for Black.
Simon Great stepped over the
red velvet cord and more flash
bulbs went off.

“You know. Doc,” Sandra
said, “I’m a dog to suggest
this, but what if this whole
thing were a big fake? What
if Simon Great were really
playing the Machine’s moves?
There would surely be some
way for his electricians to
rig—”

Doc laughed happily — and
so loudly that some people at
the adjoining tables frowned.

“Miss Grayling, that is a
wonderful idea! I will prob-
ably steal it for a short story.
I still manage to write and
place a few in England. No, I
do not think that is at all like-
ly. WBM would never risk
such a fraud. Great is ccwn-
pletely out of practice for ac-
tual tournament play, though

by FRiTZ LEIBER

not for chess-thinking. The
difference in style between
a computer and a man would
be evident to any expert.
Great’s own style is remem-
bered and would be recog-
nized— though, come to think
of it, his style was often de-
scribed as being machine-
like...” For a moment Doc’s
eyes became thoughtful. Then
he smiled again. ”But no, the
idea is impossible. Vanderhoef
as Tournament Director has
played two or three games
with the Machine to assure
himself that it operates legiti-
mately ,and has grandmaster
skill.”

‘‘Did the Machine beat
him?” Sandra asked.

DOC shrugged. “The scores
weren’t released. It was
very hush-hush. But about
your idea. Miss Grayling —
did you ever read about Mael-
zel’s famous chessplaying au-
tomaton of the 19th Century?
That one too was supposed to
work by machinery (cogs and
gears, not electricity) but ac-
tually it had a man hidden in-
side it — your Edgar Poe ex-
posed the fraud in a famous
article. In my story I think
the chess robot will break
down while it is being dem-
onstrated to a millionaire pur-
chaser and the young in-
ventor will have to win its
game for it to cover up and
swing the deal. Only the mil-
lionaire’s daughter, who is
really a better player than ei-
ther of them... yes, yes! Your

'•Ambrose Bierce too wrote a
story about a chessplaying
robot of the clickety-clank-
grr kind who murdered his
creator, crushing him like an
iron grizzly bear when the
man won a game from him.
Tell me. Miss Grayling, do
you find yourself imagining
this Machine putting out an-
gry tendrils to strangle its
opponents, or beaming rays of
death and hypnotism at them?
I can imagine...”

While Doc chattered hap-
pily on about chessplaying
robots and chess stories, San-
dra found herself thinking
about him. A writer of some
sort evidently and a terrific
chess buff. Perhaps he was*
an actual medical doctor.
She’d read something about
two or three coming over with
the Russian squad. But Doc
certainly didn’t sound like a
Soviet citizen.

He was older than she’d
first assumed. She could see
that now that she was listen-
ing to him less and looking
at him more. Tired, too. Only
his dark-circled eyes shone
with unquenchable youth. A
useful old guy, whoever he
was. An hour ago she’d been
sure she was going to muff
this assignment completely
and now she had it laid out
cold. For the umpteenth time
in her career Sandra shied
away from the guilty thought
that she wasn’t a writer at all
or even a reporter, she just
used dime-a-dozen female at-
tractiveness to rope a sus-

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

ceptible man (young, old,
American, Russian) and pick
his brain. ••

She realized suddenly that
the whole hall had become
very quiet.

Doc was the only person
still talking and people were
again looking at them disap-
provingly. All five wall-boards
were lit up and the changed
position of a few pieces
showed that opening moves
had been made on four of
them, including the Ma-
chine's. The central space be-
tween the tiers of seats was
completely clear now, except
for one man hurrying across
it in their direction with the
rapid yet quiet, almost tip-toe
walk that seemed to mark all
the officials. Like mortician^
assistants, she thought. He
rapidly ^mounted the stairs
and halted at the top to look
around searchingly. His gaze
lighted on their table, his eye-
brows went up, and he made
a beeline for Doc. Sandra
wondered if she should warn
him that he was about to be
shushed.

The official laid a hand on
Doc's shoulder. ‘‘Sir!" he said
agitatedly. “Do you realize
that they've started your
clock. Dr. Krakatower?"

SANDRA became aware that
Doc was grinning at her.
“Yes, it’s true enough. Miss
Grayling," he said. “I trust
you will pardon the deception,
though it was hardly one,
even technically. Every word

I told you about Dirty Old
Krakatower is literally true.
Except the long white beard
— he never wore a beard after
he was 35 — that part was an
out-and-out lie! Yes, yes! I
will be along in a moment ! Do
not worry, the spectators will
get their money's worth out
of me ! And WBM did not
with its expense account buy
my soul — that belongs to the
young lady here."

Doc rose, lifted her hand
and kissed it. “Thank you,
mademoiselle, for a charming
interlude. I hope it will be re-
peated. Incidentally, I should
say that besides. . . (Stop pull-
ing at me, man! — there can't
be five minutes on my clock
yet !) . . . that besides being
Dirty Old Krakatower, grand-
master emeritus, I am also the
special correspondent of the
London Times. It is always
pleasant to chat with a col-
league. Please do not hesitate
to use in your articles any of
the ideas I tossed out, if you
find them worthy — I sent in
my own first dispatch two
hours ago. Yes, yes, I come!
Au revoir, mademoiselle!"

He was at the bottom of the
stairs when Sandra jumped up
and hurried to the balustrade.

“Hey, Doc!" she called.

He turned.

“Good luck !" she shouted
and waved.

He kissed his hand to her
and went on.

People glared at her then
and a horrified official came
hurrying. Sandra made big

by FRITZ LEIBER

frightened eyes at him, but
she couldn't quite hide her
grin.

SITZFLEISCH (which
roughly means endurance
— “sitting flesh" or “buttock
meat") is the quality needed
above all others by tournament
chess players — and their audi-
ences.

After Sandra had watched
the games (the players’ faces,
rather — she had a really good
pair of zoomer glasses) for a
half hour or so, she had gone
to her hotel room, written her
first article (interview with
the famous Dr. Krakatower),
sent it in and then come back
to the hall to see how the
games had turned out.

They were still going on,
all five of them.

The press section was full,
but two boys and a girl of
high-school age obligingly
made room for Sandra on the
top tier of seats and she
tuned in on their whispered
conversation. The jargon was
recognizably related to that
which she’d gotten a dose of
on the floor, but gamier. Play-
ers did not sacrifice pawns,
they sacked them. No one was
ever defeated, only busted.
Pieces weren’t lost but blown.
The Ruy Lopez was the Dirty
Old Roodcy — and incidentally
a certain set of opening moves
named after a long-departed
Spanish churchman, she now
discovered from I^vc, Bill

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

and Judy, whose sympathetic
help she won by frequent
loans of her zoomer glasses.

The four-hour time control
point-^two hours and 30
moves for each player — had
been passed while she was
sending in her article, she
learned, and they were well on
their way toward the next
control point — an hour more
and 15 moves for each player
— after which unfinished
games would be adjourned and
continued at a special morning
session. Sherevsky had had to
make 15 moves in two min-
utes after taking an hour
earlier on just one move. But
that was nothing out of the
ordinary, Dave had assured
her in the same breath,
Sherevsky was always letting
himself get into “fantastic
time-pressure" and then wrig-
gling out of it brilliantly. He
was apparently headed for a
win over Serek. Score one for
the USA over the USSR,
Sandra thought proudly.

Votbinnik had Jandorf prac-
tically in Zugzwang (his
pieces all tied up. Bill Ex-
plained) and the Argentinian
would be busted shortly.
Through the glasses Sandra
could see Jandorf’s thick
chest rise and fall as he glared
murderously at the board in
front of him. By contrast Vot-
binnik looked like a man lost
in reverie.

Dr. Krakatower had lost a
pawn to Lysmov but was
hanging on grimly. However,
Dave would not give a

plugged nickle for his chanqes
against the former world’s
champion, because ‘‘those old
ones always weaken in the
sixth hour.”

“You for-get the bio-logical
mir-acle of Doc-tor Las-ker,”
Bill and Judy chanted as one.

“Shut up,” Dave warned
them. An official glared an-
grily from the floor and shook
a finger. Much later Sandra
discovered that Dr. Emanuel
Lasker was a philosopher-
mathematician who, after
holding the world’s champion-
ship for 26 years, had won a
very strong tournament (New
York 1924) at the age of 56
and later almost won another
(Moscow 1935) at the age of
67.

SANDRA studied Doc’s face
carefully through her
glasses. He looked terribly
tired now, almost a death’s
head. Something tightened in
her chest and she looked away
quickly.

The Angler-Jal and Grabo-
Machine games were still
ding-dong contests, Dave told
her. If anything, Grabo had a
slight advantage. The Ma-
chine was “on the move,”
meaning that Grabo had just
made a move and was waiting
the automaton’s reply.

The Hungarian was about
the most restless “waiter”
Sandra could imagine. He
twisted his long legs constant-
ly and writhed his shoulders
and about every five seconds
he ran his hands back through

his unkempt tassle of hair.

Once he yawned selfcon-
sciously, straightened himself
and sat very compactly. But
almost immediately he was
writhing again.

The Machine had its own
mannerisms, if you could call
them that. Its dim, unobtru-
sive telltale lights were wink-
ing on and off in a fairly rap-
id, random pattern. Sandra got
the impression that from time
to time Grabo’s eyes were try-
ing to follow their blinking,
like a man watching fireflies.

Simon Great sat impassive-
ly behind a bare table next to
the Machine, his five gray-
smocked technicians grouped
around him.

A flushed-faced, tall, distin-
guished-looking elderly gen-
tleman was standing by the
Machine’s console. Dave told
Sandra it was Dr. Vanderhoef,
the Tournament Director,
one-time champion of the
world.

“Another old potzer like
Krakatower, but with sense
enough to know when he’s
licked,” Bill characterized
harshly.

“Youth, ah, un-van-quish-
able youth,” Judy chanted
happily by herself. “Flashing
like a meteor across the chess
fir-ma-ment. Morphy, Angler,
Judy Kaplan. . .”

“Shut up! They really will
throw us out,” Dave warned
her and then explained in
whispers to Sandra that Van-
derhoef and his assistants had
the nervous-making job of

by FRITZ LEIBCR

feeding into the Machine the
moves made by its opponent,
*'so everyone vsrill know it's on
the level, I guess." He added,
“It means the Machine loses
a few seconds every move, be-
tween the time Grabo punch-
es the clock and the time Van-
derhoef gets the move fed into
the Machine."

Sandra nodded. The players
were making it as hard on the
Machine as possible, she de-
cided with a small rush of
sympathy.

SUDDENLY there was a
tiny movement of the
gadget attached from the Ma-
chine to the clocks on Grabo’s
table and a faint click. But
Grabo almost leapt out of his
skin.

Simultaneously a red castle-
topped piece (one of the Ma-
chine’s rooks, Sandra was in-
formed) moved four squares
sideways on the big electric
board above the Machine. An
official beside Dr. Vanderhoef
went Qver to Grabo’s board
and carefully moved the cor-
responding piece. Grabo
seemed about to make some
complaint, then apparently
thought better of it and
plunged into brooding cogita-
tion over the board, elbows on
the table, both hands holding
his head and fiercely massag-
ing his scalp.

The Machine let loose with
an unusually rapid flurry of
blinking. Grabo straightened
up, seemed again about to
make a complaint, then once

tHC iS4-SQUARE MADHOUSE

more to repress the impulse.
Finally he moved a piece and
punched his clock. Dr. Van-
derhoef irtimediately flipped
four levers on the Machine's
console and Grabo's move ap-
peared on the electric board.

Grabo sprang up, went over
to the red velvet cord and mo-
tioned agitatedly to Vander-
hoef.

There was a short confer-
ence, inaudible at the distance,
during which Grabo waved his
arms and Vanderhoef grew
more flushed. Finally the lat-
ter went over to Simon Great
and said something, apparent-
ly with some hesitancy. But
Great smiled obligingly,
sprang to his feet, and in turn
spoke to his technicians, who
immediately fetched and un-
folded several large screens
and set them in front of the
Machine, masking the blink-
lights. Blindfolding it,
Sandra found herself think-
ing.

Dave chuckled. “That’s al-
ready happened once while
you were out," he told San-
dra. “I guess seeing the lights
blinking makes Grabo nerv-
ous. But then not seeing them
makes him nervous. Just
watch."

“The Machine has its own
mysterious pow-wow-wers,"
Judy chanted.

“That’s what you think,"
Bill told her. “Did you know
that Willie Angler has hired
Evil Eye Bixel out of Brook-
lyn to put the whammy on
the Machine? S’fact."

. pow-wow-wers unknown
to mere mortals of flesh and
blood—”

‘‘Shut up!” Dave hissed.
‘‘Now youVe done it. Here
comes old Eagle Eye. Look, I
don’t know you two. I’m with
this lady here.”

Bela Grabo was suffering
acute tortures. He had a
winning attack, he knew it.
The Machine was counter-
attacking, but unstrategically,
desperately, in the style of
a Frank Marshall complicat-
ing the issue and hoping for
a swindle. All Grabo had to
do, he knew, was keep his
head and not blunder — not
throw away a queen, say, as
he had to old Vanderhoef at
Brussels, or overlook a mate
in two, as he had against
Sherevsky at Tel Aviv. The
memory of those unutterably
black moments and a dozen
more like them returned to
haunt him. Never if he lived
a thousand years would he be
free of them.

For the tenth time in the
last two minutes he glanced
at his clock. He had fifteen
minutes in which to make five
moves. He wasn’t in time-
pressure, he must remember
that. He mustn’t make a move
on impulse, he mustn’t let his
treacherous hand leap out
without waiting for instruc-
tions from its guiding brain.

First prize in this tourna-
ment meant incredible wealth
— transportation money and
hotel bills for more than a

score of future tournaments.
But more than that, it was one
more chance to blazon before
the world his true superiority
rather than the fading reputa-
tion of it. ”... Bela Grabo,
brilliant but erratic...” Per-
haps his last chance.

When, in the name of Heav-
en, was the Machine going to
make its next move? Surely it
had already taken more than
four minutes! But a glance at
its clock showed him that
hardly half that time had gone
by. He decided he had made
a mistake in asking again for
the screens. It was easier to
watch those damned lights
blink than have them blink
in his imagination.

Oh, if chess could only be
played in intergalactic space,
in the black privacy of one’s
thoughts. But there had to be
the physical presence of the
opponent with his (possibly
deliberate) unnerving manner-
isms— Lasker and his cigar,
Capablanca and his red neck-
tie, Nimzowitsch and his nerv-
ous contortions (very like
Bela Grabo’s, though the lat-
ter did not see it that way).
And now this ghastly flash-
ing, humming, stinking, but-
ton-banging metal monster !

Actually, he told himself, he
was being asked to play two
opponents, the Machine and
Simon Great, a sort of con-
sultation team. It wasn’t fair!

The Machine hammered its
button and rammed its
queen across the electric

by FRITZ LEIBER

board. In Grabo^s imagination
it was like an explosion. ,

Grabo held onto his nerves
with an effort and plunged
into a maze of calculations.

Once he came to, like a man
who has been asleep, to realize
that he was wondering wheth-
er the lights were still blink-
ing behind the screens while
he was making his move. Did
the Machine really analyze at
such times or were the lights
just an empty trick? He
forced his mind back to the
problems of the game, decided
on his move, checked the
board twice for any violent
move he might have missed,
noted on his clock that he’d
taken five minutes, checked
the board again very rapidly
and then put out his hand and
made his move — with the
fiercely suspicious air of a
boss compelled to send an ex-
tremely unreliable underling
on an all-important errand.

Then he punched his clock,
sprang to his feet, and once
more waved for Vanderhoef.

Thirty seconds later the
Tournament Director, very
red-faced now, was saying in
a low voice, almost pleadingly,
‘‘But Bela, I cannot keep ask-
ing them to change the
screens. Already they have
been up twice and down once
to please you. Moving them
disturbs the other players and
surely isn’t good for your own
peace of mind. Oh, Bela, my
dear Bela — ”

Vanderhoef broke off.
Grabo knew he had been go-

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

ing to say something improper
but from the heart, such as,
“For God’s sake don’t blow
this game out of nervousness
now that you have a win in
sight” — a n d this sympathy
somehow made the Hungarian
furious.

“I have other complaints
which I will make formally
after the game,” he said harsh-
ly, quivering with rage. “It is
a disgrace the way that
mechanism punches the time-
clock button. It will crack the
case ! The Machine never
stops humming! And it stinks
of ozone and hot metal, as if
it were about to explode !”

“It cannot explode, Bela.
Please !”

“No, but it threatens to!
And you know a threat is al-
ways more effective than an
actual attack! As for the
screens, they must be taken
down at once, I demand it!”

“Very well, Bela, very well,
it will be done. Compose your-
self.”

Grabo did not at once re-
turn to his table — he could
not have endured to sit still
for the moment — but paced
along the line of tables,
snatching looks at the other
games in progress. When he
looked back at the big electric
board, he saw that the Ma-
chine had made a move al-
though he hadn’t heard it
punch the clock. He rushed
back and studied the board
without sitting down. Why,
the Machine had made a
stupid move, he saw with a

rush of exaltation. At that mo-
ment the last screen being
folded started to fall over, but
one of the gray-smocked men
caught it deftly. G r a b o
flinched and his hand darted
out and moved a piece.

He heard someone grasp.
Vanderhoef.

TT got very quiet. The four
•^soft clicks of the move be-
ing fed into the Machine were
like the beat of a muffled
driTm.

There was a buzzing in
Grabo’s ears. He looked down
a': the board in horror.

The Machine blinked,
blinked once more and then,
although barely twenty sec-
onds had elapsed, moved a
rook.

On the glassy gray margin
above the Machine’s electric
board, large red words flamed
on :

CHECK! AND MATE IN
THREE

Up in the stands Dave
squee5:ed Sandra’s arm. ‘‘He’s
done it! He’s let himself be
swindled.”

“You mean the Machine has
beaten Grabo?” Sandra asked.

“What else?”

“Can you be sure? Just like
that?”

“Of cour... Wait a sec-
ond. . . Yes, I’m sure.”

“Mated in three like a pot-
zer,” Bill confirmed.

' “The poor old boob,” Judy
sighed.

Down on the floor Bela
Grabo sagged. The assistant
director moved toward him
quickly. But then the Hungar-
ian straightened himself a lit-
tle.

“I resign,” he said softly.

The red words at the top of
the board were wiped out and
briefly replaced, in white, by:

THANK YOU FOR A
GOOD GAME

And then a third statement,
also in white, flashed on for a
few seconds :

YOU HAD BAD LUCK

Bela Grabo clenched his
fists and bit his teeth. Even
the Machine was being sorry
for him!

He stiffly walked out of the
hall. It was a long, long walk.

ADJOURNMENT time
neared. Serek, the ex-
change down but with consid-
erable time on his clock,
sealed his forty-sixth move
against Sherevsky and handed
the envelope to Vanderhoef.
It would be opened when the
game was resumed at the
morning session. Dr. Kraka-
tower studied the position on
his board and then quietly
tipped over his king. He sat
there for a moment as if he
hadn’t the strength to rise.
Then he shook himself a lit-
tle, smiled, got up, clasped

* by FRITZ LEIBER

hands briefly with Lysmov
and wandered over to watch
the Angler- Jal game.

Jandorf had resigned his
game to Votbinnik some min-
utes ago, rather more surlily.

After a while Angler sealed
a move, handing it to Vander-
hoef with a grin just as the
little red flag dropped on his
clock, indicating he’d used
every second of his time.

Up in the stands Sandra
worked her shoulders to get a
kink out of her back. She’d
noticed several newsmen hur-
rying off to report in the Ma-
chine’s first win. She was
thankful that her job was
limited to special articles.

‘‘Chess is a pretty intense
game,” she remarked to Dave.

He nodded. “It’s a killer. I
don’t expect to live beyond
forty myself.”

“Thirty,” Bill said.

“Twenty-five is enough
time to be a meteor,’' said
Judy.

Sandra thought to herself:
the Unbeat Generation.

Next day Sherevsky
played the Machine to a
dead-level ending. Simon
Great offered a draw for the
Machine (over an unsuccess-
ful interfering protest from
Jandorf that this constituted
making a move for the Ma-
chine) but Sherevsky refused
and sealed his move.

“He wants to have it proved
to him that the Machine can
play end games,” Dave com-
mented to Sandra up in the

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

stands. “I don’t blame him.**
At the beginning of today’s
session Sandra had noticed
that Bill and Judy were fol-
lowing each game in a very
new-looking 1::^ok they shared
jealously between them.
Won^t look new for long,
Sandra had thought.

“That’s the ‘Bible’ they got
there,” Dave had explained.
“MCO — Modern Chess Open-
ings. It lists all the best open-
moves in chess, thousands and
thousands of variations. That
is, what masters think are the
best moves. The moves that
have won in the past, really.
We chipped in together to
buy the latest edition — the
13th — just hot off the press,”
he had finished proudly.

Now with the Machine-
Sherevsky ending the center
of interest, the kids were con-
sulting another book, one with
grimy, dog-eared pages. ^
“That’s the ‘New Testa-
ment’— Basic Chess End-
ings"* Dave said when he no-
ticed her looking. “There’s so
much you must know in end-
ings that it’s amazing the Ma-
chine can play them at all. I
guess as the pieces get fewer
it starts to look deeper.”

SANDRA nodded. She was
feeling virtuous. She had
got her interview with Jan-
dorf and then this morning
one with Grabo (“How it
Feels to Have a Machine Out-
Think You”). The latter had
made her think of herself as a
real vulture of the press, cir-

cling over the doomed. The
Hungarian had seemed in a
positively suicidal depression.

One newspaper article made
much of the Machine’s “psy-
chological tactics,” hinting
that the blinking lights were
designed to hypnotize oppo-
nents. The general press cov-
erage V73.S somewhat startling.
A game that in America nor-
mally rated only a fine-print
column in the back sections of
a very few Sunday papers was
now getting boxes on the
front page. The defeat of a
man by a machine seemed
everywhere to awaken nervous
feelings of insecurity, like the
launching of the first sputnik.

Sandra had rather hesitant-
ly sought out Dr. Krakatower
during the close of the morn-
ing session of play, still feel-
ing a little guilty from her in-
terview with Grabo. But Doc
iiad seemed happy to see her
and quite recovered from last
night’s defeat, though when
she had addressed him as
“Master Krakatower” he had
winced and said, “Please, not
that!” Another session of cof-
fee and wine-and-seltzer had
resulted in her getting an in-
troduction to her first Soviet
grandmaster, Serek, who had
proved to be unexpectedly
charming. He had just man-
aged to draw his game with
Sherevsky (to the great
amazement of the kibitzers,
Sandra learned) and was most
obliging about arranging for
an interview.

Not to be outdone in gal-

lantry, Doc had insisted on es-
corting Sandra to her seat in
the stands — at the price of
once more losing a couple of
minutes on his clock. As a re-
sult her stock went up consid-
erably with Dave, Bill and
Judy. Thereafter they treated
anything she had to say with
almost annoying deference —
Bill especially, probably in
penance for his thoughtless
cracks at Doc. Sandra later
came to suspect that the kids
had privately decided that she
was Dr. Krakatower’s mis-
tress— probably a new one be-
cause she was so scandalously
ignorant of chess. She did not
disillusion them.

Doc lost again in the second
round — to Jal.

IN the third round Lysmov
defeated the Machine in 27
moves. There was a flaring of
flashbulbs, a rush of newsmen
to the phones, jabbering in the
stands and much comment and
analysis that was way over
Sandra’s head — except she got
the impression that Lysmov
had done something tricky.

The general emotional reac-
tion in America, as reflected
by the newspapers, was not
too happy. One read between
the lines that for the Machine
to beat a man was bad, but for
a Russian to beat an American
machine was worse. A widely-
read sports columnist, two
football coaches, and several
rural politicians announced
that chess was a morbid game
played only by weirdies. De-

by FRITZ LEIBER

spite these thick-chested he-
man statements, the elusive
mood of insecurity deepened.

Besides the excitement of
the Lysmov win, a squabble
had arisen in connection with
the Machine’s still-unfinished
end game with Sherevsky,
which had been continued
through one morning session
and was now headed for an-
other.

Finally there were rumors
that World Business Ma-
chines was planning to re-
place Simon Great with a na-
tionally famous physicist.

Sandra begged Doc to try to
explain it all to her in kinder-
garten language. She was feel-
ing uncertain of herself again
and quite subdued after being
completely rebuffed in her ef-
forts to get an interview with
Lysmov, who had fled her as
if she were a threat to his So-
viet virtue.

Doc on the other hand was
quite vivacious, cheered by his
third-round draw with Jan-
dorf.

‘‘Most willingly, my dear,”
he said. “Have you ever no-
ticed that kindergarten lan-
guage can be far honester than
the adult tongues? Fewer fic-
tions. Well, several of us
hashed over the Lysmov game
until three o’clock this morn-
ing. Lysmov wouldn’t, though.
Neither would Votbinnik ar
Jal. You see, I have my comr
munication problems with the
Russians too.

“We finally decided that
Lysmov had managed to guess

with complete accuracy both
the depth at which the Ma-
chine is analyzing in the open-
ing and middle game (ten
moves ahead instead of eight,
we think — a prodigious
achievement!) and also the
main value scale in terms of
which the Machine selects its
move.

“Having that information,
Lysmov managed to play into
a combination which would
give the Machine a maximum
plus value in its value scale
(win of Lysmov’s queen, it
was) after ten moves but a
checkmate for Lysmov on his
second move after the first
ten. A human chess master
would have seen a trap like
that, but the Machine could
not, because Lysmov was ma-
neuvering in an area that did
not exist for the Machine’s
perfect but limited mind. Of
course the Machine changed
its tactics after the first three
moves of the ten had been
p 1 a y e d — it could see the
checkmate then — ^but by that
time it was too late for it to
avert a disastrous loss of ma-
terial. It was tricky of Lys-
mov, but completely fair. Af-
ter this we’ll all be watching
for the opportunity to play
the same sort of trick on the
Machine.

YSMOV was the first of

-■-^us to realize fully that
we are not playing against a
metal monster but against a
certain kind of programming.
If there are any weaknesses

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

we can spot in that program-
ming, we can win. Very much
in the same way that we can
again and again defeat a flesh-
and-blood player when we dis-
cover that he consistently at-
tacks without having an ad-
vantage in position or is regu-
larly overcautious about
launching a counter-attack
when he himself is attacked
without justification.’'

Sandra nodded eagerly. ‘‘So
from now on your chances of
beating the Machine should
keep improving, shouldn’t
they? I mean as you find out
more and more about the pro-
gramming.”

Doc smiled. “You forget,”
he said gently, “that Simon
Great can change the program-
ming before each new game.
Now I see why he fought so
hard for that point.”

“Oh. Say, Doc, what’s this
about the Sherevsky end
game?”

“You are picking up the
language, aren’t you?” he ob-
served. “Sherevsky got a lit-
tle angry when he discovered
that Great had the Machine
programmed to analyze steadi-
ly on the next move after an
adjournment until the game
was resumed next morning.
Sherevsky questioned wheth-
er it was fair for the Machine
to ‘think’ all night while its
opponent had to get some rest.
Vanderhoef decided for the
Machine, , though Sherevsky
may carry the protest to
FIDE.

“Bah — I think Great wants

us to get heated up over such
minor matters, just as he is
happy (and oh so obliging!)
when we complain about how
the Machine blinks or hums or
smells. It keeps our minds off
the main business of trying to
outguess his programming. In-
cidentally, that is one thing
we decided last night — Sher-
evsky, Willie Angler, Jan-
dorf, Serek, and myself — that
we are all going to have to
learn to play the Machine
without letting it get on our
nerves and without asking to
be protected from it. As Wil-
lie puts it, ‘So suppose it
sounds like a boiler factory
even — okay, you can think in
a boiler factory.’ Myself, I am
not so sure of that, but his
spirit is right.”

Sandra felt herself perking
up as a new article began to
shape itself in her mind. She
said, “And what about WBM
replacing Simon Great?”
Again Doc smiled. “I think,
my dear, that you can safely
dismiss that as just a rumor. I
think that Simon Great has
just begun to fight.”

Round Four saw the Ma-
chine spring the first of
its surprises.

It had finally forced a draw
against Sherevsky in the
morning session, ending the
long second-round game, and
now was matched against Vot-
binnik.

The Machine opened Pawn
by FRITZ LEIBER

to King Four, Votbinnik re-
plied Pawn to King Three.

‘'The French Defense, Bin-
ny’s favorite,” Dave muttered
and they settled back for the
Machine’s customary four-
minute wait.

Instead the Machine moved
at once and punched its clock.

Sandra, studying Votbinnik
through her glasses, decided
that the Russian grandmaster
looked just a trifle startled.
Then he made his move.

Once again the Machine re-
sponded instantly.

There was a flurry of com-
ment from the stands and a
scurrying-about of officials to
shush it. Meanwhile the Ma-
chine continued to make its
moves at better than rapid-
transit speed, although Vot-
binnik soon began to take
rather more time on his.

The upshot was that the
Machine made eleven moves
before it started to take time
to ‘think’ at all.

Sandra clamored so excited-
ly to Dave for an explanation
that she had two officials wav-
ing at her angrily.

As soon as he dared, Dave
whispered, “Great must have
banked on Votbinnik playing
the French — almost always
does — ^and fed all the varia-
tions of the French into the
Machine’s ‘memory’ from
MCO and maybe some other
books. So long as Votbinnik
stuck to a known variation of
the French, why, the Machine
could play from memory with-
out analyzing at all. Then

THE 64.SQUARE MADHOUSE

when a strange move came
along — one that wasn’t in its
memory — only on the twelfth
move yet! — ^^the Machine went
back to analyzing, only now
it’s taking longer and going
deeper because it’s got more
time — six minutes a move,
about. The only thing I won-
der is why Great didn’t have
the Machine do it in the first
three games. It seems so ob-
vious.”

Sandra ticketed that in her
mind as a question for Doc.
She slipped off to her room to
write her “Don’t Let a Robot
Get Your Goat” article (draw-
ing heavily on Doc’s observa-
tions) and got back to the
stands twenty minutes before
the second time-control point.
It was becoming a regular rou-
tine.

Votbinnik was a knight
down — almost certainly bust-
ed, Dave explained.

“It got terrifically compli-
cated while you were gone,”
he said. “A real Votbinnik
position.”

“Only the Machine out-
binniked him,” Bill finished.

Judy hummed Beethoven’s
“Funeral March for the Death
of a Hero.”

Nevertheless Votbinnik did
not resign. The Machine
sealed a move. Its board
blacked out and Vanderhoef,
with one of his assistants
standing beside him to wit-
ness, privately read the move
off a small indicator on the
console. Tomorrow he would
feed the move back into the

Machine when play was re-
sumed at the rooming session.

Doc sealed a move too al-
though he was two pawns
down in his game against
Grabo and looked tired to
death.

“They don’t give up easily,
do they?” Sandra observed to
Dave. “They must really love
the game. Or do they hate it?”

“When you get to psychol-
ogy it’s all beyond me,” Dave
replied. “Ask me something
else.”

Sandra smiled. “Thank you,
Dave,” she said. “I will.”

COME the morning session,
Votbinnik played on for a
do7en moves then resigned.

A little later Doc managed
to draw his game with Grabo
by perpetual check. He caught
sight of Sandra coming down
from the stands and waved to
her, then made the motions of
drinking.

N'yw he looks almost like a
hoy, Sandra thought as she
joined him.

“Say, Doc,” she asked when
they had secured a table, “why
is a rook worth more than a
bishop?”

He darted a suspicious
glance at her. “That is not
your kind of question,” he
said sternly. “Exactly what
have you been up to?”

Sandra confessed that she
had asked Dave to teach her
how to play chess.

‘T knew those children
would corrupt you,” Doc said
somberly. “Look, my dear, if

you learn to play chess you
won’t be able to write your
clever little articles about it.
Besides, as I warned you the
first day, chess is a madness.
Women are ordinarily im-
mune, but that doesn’t justify
you taking chances with your
sanity.”

“But I’ve kind of gotten in-
terested, watching the tourna-
ment,” Sandra objected. “At
least I’d like to know how the
pieces move.”

“Stop!” Doc commanded.
“You’re already in danger. Di-
rect your mind somewhere
else. Ask me a sensible, down-
to-e a r t h journalist’s ques-
tion— something completely
irrational !”

“Okay, why didn’t Simon
Great have the Machine set to
play the openings fast in the
first three games?”

“Hah! I think Great plays
Lasker-chess in his program-
ming. He hides his strength
and tries.to win no more easily
than he has to, so he will have
resources in reserve. The Ma-
chine loses to Lysmov and im-
mediately starts playing more
strongly — the psychological

impression made on the other
players by such tactics is for-
midable.”

“But the Machine isn’t
ahead yet?”

“No, of course not. After
four rounds Lysmov is lead-
ing the tournament with
3% — Yiy meaning 354 in the
win column and 54 in the loss
column. . . ”

“How do you half win a

by FRITZ LEIBER

game of chess? Or half lose
one?** Sandra interrupted.

‘'By drawing a game — play-
ing to a tie. Lysmov*s 3^ - ^
is notational shorthand for
three wins and a draw. Under-
stand? My dear, I don’t usual-
ly have to explain things to
you in such detail.**

“I just didn’t want you to
think I was learning too much
about chess.**

“Ho! Well, to get on with
the score after four rounds.
Angler and Votbinnik both
have 3 — 1, while the Machine
is bracketed at 2^ — 1J4 with
Jal. But the Machine has cre-
ated an impression of
strength, as if it were all set
to come from behind with a
rush.’* He shook his head. “At
the moment, my dear,’* he said,
“I feel very pessimistic about
the chances of neurons against
relays in this tournament. Re-
lays don’t panic and fag. But
the oddest thing. . .**

“Yes?’* Sandra prompted.
“Well, the oddest thing is
that the Machine doesn’t play
‘like a machine* at all. It uses
dynamic strategy, the kind we
sometimes call ‘Russian’, com-
plicating each position as
much as possible and creating
maximum tension. But that
too is a matter of the program-
ming. .

DOC'S foreboding was ful-
filled as round followed
hard-fought round. In the
next five days (there was a
weekend recess) the Machine
successively smashed Jandorf,

THE 64 SQUARE MADHOUSE

Serek and Jal and after seven
rounds was out in front by a
full point.

Jandorf, evidently im-
pressed by the Machine’s
flawless opening play against
Votbinnik, chose an inferior
line in the Ruy Lopez to get
the Machine “out of the
books.’’ Perhaps he hoped that
the Machine would go on
blindly making book moves,
but the Machine did not
oblige. It immediately slowed
its play, “thought hard” and
annihilated the Argentinian in
25 moves.

Doc commented, “The Wild
Bull of the Pampas tried to
use the living force of his hu-
man personality to pull a fast
one and swindle the Machine.
Only the Machine didn’t
swindle.”

Against Jal, the Machine
used a new wrinkle. It used
a variable amount of time on
moves, apparently according
to how difficult it “judged”
the position to be.

When Serek got a poor
pawn-position the Machine
simplified the game relent-
lessly, suddenly discarding its
hitherto “Russian” strategy.
“It plays like anything but a
machine,” Doc commented.
“We know the reason all too
well — Simon Great — but do-
ing something about it is
something else again. Great is
hitting at our individual weak-
nesses wonderfully well.
Though I think I could play
brilliant psychological chess
myself if I had a machine to

do the detail work.” Doc
sounded a bit wistful.

The audiences grew in size
and in expensiveness of ward-
robe, though most of the cafe
society types made their visits
fleeting ones. Additional
stands were erected. A hard-
liquor bar was put in and then
taken out. The problem of
keeping reasonable order and
quiet became an unending one
for Vanderhoef, who had to
ask for more “hushers.’* The
number of scientists and com-
puter men. Navy, Army and
Space Force uniforms were
more in evidence. Dave and
Bill turned up one morning
with a three-dimensional chess
set of transparent plastic and
staggered Sandra by assuring
her that most bright young
space scientists were moder-
ately adept at this 512-square
game.

Sandra heard that WBM
had snagged a big order from
the War Department. She also
heard that a Syndicate man
had turned up with a book on
the tournament, taking bets
from the more heavily heeled
types and that a detective was
circulating about, trying to
spot him.

The newspapers kept up
their f r o n t-page reporting,
most of the writers personal-
izing the Machine heavily and
rather too cutely. Several of
the papers started regular
chess columns and ‘‘How to
Play Chess” features. There
was a flurry of pictures of
movie starlets and such sitting

at chess boards. Hollywood re-
vealed plans for two chess
movies: “They Made Her a
Black Pawn” and “The Mon-
ster From King Rook Square”.
Chess novelties and costume
jewelry appeared. The United
States Chess Federation
proudly reported a phenome-
nal rise in membership.

SANDRA learned enough
chess to be able to blunder
through a game with Dave
without attempting more than
one illegal move in five, to
avoid the Scholar’s Mate most
of the time and to be able to
checkmate with two rooks
though not with one. Judy had
asked her, “Is he pleased that
you’re learning chess?”

Sandra had replied, “No, he
thinks it is a madness.” The
kids had all whooped at that
and Dave had said, “How
right he is!”

Sandra was scraping the
bottom of the barrel for topics
for her articles, but then it oc-
cured to her to write about the
kids, which worked out nice-
ly, and that led to a humorous
article “Chess Is for Brains”
about her own efforts to learn
the game, and for the nth time
in her career she thought of
herself as practically a col-
umnist and was accordingly
elated.

After his two draws. Doc
lost three games in a row and
still bs:d the Machine to face
and then Sherevsky. His
1 — 6 score gave him undis-
puted possession of last place.

by FRITZ LEIBER

VII

He grew very depressed. He
still made a point of squiring
her about before the playing
sessions, but she had to make
most of the conversation. His
rare flashes of humor were
rather macabre.

‘‘They have Dirty Old
Krakatower locked in the cel-
lar/' he muttered just before
the start of the next to the
last round, “and now they
send the robot down to de-
stroy him.”

“Just the same, Doc,”
Sandra told him, “good luck.”

Doc shook his head.
“Against a man luck might
help. But against a Machine?”

“It’s not the Machine you’re
playing, but the programming.
Remember?”

“Yes, but it’s the Machine
that doesn’t make the mis-
take. And a mistake is what I
need most of all today. Some-
body else’s,”

Doc must have looked very
dispirited and tired when he
left Sandra in the stands, for
Judy (Dave and Bill not hav-
ing arrived yet) asked in a
confidential, womanly sort of
voice, “What do you do for
him when he’s so unhappy?”

“Oh, I’m especially passion-
ate,” Sandra heard herself an-
swer.

“Is that good for him?”
Judy demanded doubtfully.

“Sh !” Sandra said, some-
what aghast at her irresponsi-
bility and wondering if she
were getting tournan>ent-
nerves. “Sh, they’re starting
the clocks.”

Krakatower had lost

two pawns when the first
time-control point arrived and
was intending to resign on his
31st move when the Machine
broke down. Three of its
pieces moved on the electric
board at once, then the board
went dark and all the lights
on the console went out ex-
cept five which started wink-
ing like angry red eyes. The
gray-smocked men around
Simon Great sprang silently
into action, filing around back
of the console. It was the first
work anyone had seen them do
except move screens around
and fetch each other coffee.
Vanderhoef hovered anxious-
ly. Some flash bulbs went off.
Vanderhoef shook his fist at
the photographers. Simon
Great did nothing. The Ma-
chine’s clock ticked on. Doc
watched for a while and then
fell asleep.

When Vanderhoef jogged
him awake, the Machine had
just made its next move, but
the repair-job had taken 50
minutes. As a result the Ma-
chine had to make 15 moves in
10 minutes. At 40 seconds a
move it played like a dub
whose general lack of skill
was complicated by a touch of
insanity. On his 43rd move
Doc shrugged his shoulders
apologetically and announced
mate in four. There were more
flashes. Vanderhoef shook his
fist again. The machine
flashed:

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

by FRITZ LEIBER

YOU PLAYED BRILLI-
ANTLY. CONGRATULA-
TIONS!

Afterwards Doc said sourly
to Sandra. “And that was one
big lie — a child could have
beat the Machine with that
time advantage. Oh, what an
ironic glory the gods reserved
for Krakatower’s dotage — to
vanquish a broken-down com-
puter ! Only one good thing
about it — that it didn't happen
while it was playing one of
the Russians, or someone
would surely have whispered
sabotage. And that is some-
thing of which they do not ac-
cuse Dirty Old Krakatower,
because they are sure he has
not got the brains even to
think to sprinkle a little mag-
netic oxide powder in the Ma-
chine’s memory box. Bah!”

Just the same he seemed
considerably more cheerful.

Sandra said guilelessly,
“Winning a game means noth-
ing to you chess players, does
it, unless you really do it by
your own brilliancy?”

Doc looked solemn for a
moment, then he started to
chuckle. “You are getting al-
together too smart. Miss
Sandra Lea Grayling,” he said.
“Yes, yes — a chess player is
happy to win in any barely
legitimate way he can, by an
earthquake if necessary, or his
opponent sickening before he
does from the bubonic plague.
So— I confess it to you — I
was very happy to chalk up
my utterly undeserved win

THE 64-SQUARC MADHOUSE

over the luckless Machine.”

“Which incidentally makes
it anybody’s tournament again,
doesn’t it. Doc?”

^^^JTOT exactly.” Doc gave a
wry little headshake.
“We can’t expect another
fluke. After all, the Machine
has functioned perfectly seven
games out of eight, and you
can bet the WBM men will be
checking it all night, especial-
ly since it has no adjourned
games to work on. Tomorrow
it plays Willie Angler, but
judging from the way it beat
Votbinnik and Jal, it should
have a definite edge on Wil-
lie. If it beats him, then only
Votbinnik has a chance for a
tie and to do that he must de-
feat Lysmov. Which will be
most difficult.”

“Well,” Sandra said, “don’t
you think that Lysmov might
just kind of let himself be
beaten, to make sure a Rus-
sian gets first place or at least
ties for it?”

Doc shook his head em-
phatically. “There are many
things a man, even a chess
master, will do to serve his
state, but party loyalty
doesn’t go that deep. Look,
here is the standing of the
players after eight rounds.”
He handed Sandra a penciled
list.

ONE ROUND TO GO

Player Wins Losses

Machine 5J4

Votbinnik 5J4

Angler

Jal

3^2

Lysmov

Serek

3J4

Sherevsky

Jandorf

2J/2

Grabo

Krakatower

LAST ROUND PAIRINGS

Machine vs. Angler
Votbinnik vs. Lysmov
Jal VS. Serek

Shercvsky vs. Krakatower
Jandorf vs. Grabo

After studying the list for
a ivhile, Sandra said, “Hey,
even Angler could come out
first, couldn’t he, if he beat
the Machine and Votbinnik
lost to L)7smov?”

‘’Could, could — yes. But I’m
afraid that’s hoping for too
much, barring another break-
down. To tell the truth, dear,
the Machine is simply too
good for all of us. If it were
only a little faster (and these
technological improvements
always come) it would out-
class us completely. We are
at that fleeting moment of
balance when genius is al-
most good enough to equal
mechanism. It makes me feel
sad, but proud too in a morbid
fashion, to think that I am in
at the death of grandmaster
chess. Oh, I suppose the game
will always be played, but it
won’t ever be quite the same.”
He blew out a breath and
shrugged his shoulders.

**As for Willie, he's a good

one and he’ll give the Machine
a long hard fight, you can de-
pend on it. He might conceiv-
ably even draw.”

He touched Sandra’s arm.
“Cheer up, my dear,” he said.
“You should remind yourself
that a victory for the Machine
is still a victory for the USA.”

DOC’S prediction about a
long hard fight was de-
cidedly not fulfilled.

Having White, the Machine
opened Pawn to King Four
and Angler went into the Si-
cilian Defense. For the first
twelve moves on each side
both adversaries pushed their
pieces and tapped their clocks
at such lightning speed (Van-
derhoef feeding in Angler’s
moves swiftly) that up in the
stands Bill and Judy were
still flipping pages madly in
their hunt for the right col-
umn in MCO.

The Machine made its thir-
teenth move, still at blitz
tempo.

“Bishop takes Pawn, check,
and mate in three!” Willie anr
nounced very loudly, made the
move, banged his clock and
sat back.

There was a collective gasp-
and-gabble from the stands.

Dave squeezed Sandra’s arm
hard. Then for once forgetting
that he was Dr. Caution, he
demanded loudly of Bill and
Judy, “Have you two idiots
found that column yet? The
Machine*s thirteenth move is a
boner

Pinning down the reference

by FRITZ LEIBER

VIII

with a fingernail, Judy cried,
‘'Yes! Here it is on page 161
in footnote (e) (2) (B). Dave,
that same thirteenth move for
White is in the book! But
Black replies Knight to Queen
Two, not Bishop takes Pawn,
check. And three moves later
the book gives White a plus
value.’'

“What the heck, it can’t be,"
Bill asserted.

“But it is. Check for your-
self. That boner is in the
book**

“Shut up, everybody!’’ Dave
ordered, clapping his hands to
his face. When he dropped
them a moment later his eyes
gleamed. “I got it now!
Angler figured they were us-
ing the latest edition of MCO
to program the Machine on
openings, he found an editori-
al error and then he deliber-
ately played the Machine into
that variation!"

Dave practically shouted his
last words, but that attracted
no attention as at that moment
the whole hall was the noisiest
it had been throughout the
tournament. It simmered down
somewhat as the Machine
flashed a move.

Angler replied instantly.

The Machine replied almost
as soon as Angler’s move was
fed into it.

Angler moved again, his
move was fed into the Ma-
chine and the Machine
flashed :

I AM CHECKMATED.
CONGRATULATIONS !

Next morning Sandra
heard Dave’s guess con-
firmed by both Angler and
Great. Doc had spotted them
having coffee and a malt to-
gether and he and Sandra
joined them.

Doc was acting jubilant,
having just drawn his ad-
journed game with Sherevsky,
which meant, since Jandorf
had beaten Grabo, that he was
in undisputed possession of
Ninth Place. They were all
waiting for the finish of the
V o t b i n n i k-Lysmov game,
which would decide the final
standing of the leaders. Willie
Angler was complacent and
Simon Great was serene and
at last a little more talkative.

“You know, Willie,’’ the
psychologist said, “I was
afraid that one of you boys
would figure out something
like that. That was the chief
reason I didn’t have the Ma-
chine use the programmed
openings until Lysmov’s win
forced me to. I couldn’t check
every opening line in MCO
and the Archives and Shak--
hmaty. There wasn’t time. As
it was, we had a dozen typists
and proofreaders busy for
weeks preparing that part of
the programming and making
sure it was accurate as far as
following the books went. Tell
the truth now, Willie, how
many friends did you have
hunting for flaws in the latest
edition of MCO?’’

Willie grinned. “Your un-

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

lucky 13th. Well, that’s my
secret. Though I’ve always
said that anyone joining the
Willie Angler Fan Club ought
to expect to have to pay some
day for the privilege. They’re
sharp, those little guys, and I
work their tails off.”

Simon Great laughed and
said to Sandra, ”Your young
friend Dave was pretty sharp
himself to deduce what had
happened so quickly. Willie,
you ought to have him in the
Bleeker Street Irregulars.”
Sandra said, ‘T get the im-
pression he’s planning to start
a club of his own.”

Angler snorted. ”That’s the
one trouble with my little
guys. They’re all waiting to
topple me.”

Simon Great said, *'W^11, so
long as Willie is passing up
Dave, I want to talk to him.
It takes real courage in a
youngster to question author-
ity.”

”How should he get in
touch with you?” Sandra
asked.

While Great told her, Wil-
lie studied them frowningly.

“Si, are you planning to
stick in this chess-program-
ming racket?” he demanded.

Simon Great did not answer
the question. ”You try telling
me something, Willie,” he
said. “Have you been ap-
proached the last couple of
days by IBM?”

“You mean asking me to
take over your job?”

“I said /BM, Willie.”
“Oh.” Willie’s grin became

a tight one. “I’m not talking.”

There was a flurry of
sound and movement
around the playing tables.
Willie sprang up.

“Lysmov’s agreed to a
draw!” he informed them a
moment later. “The gangster!”
“Gangster because he puts
you in equal first place with
Votbinnik, both of you ahead
of the Machine?” Great in-
quired gently.

“Ahh, he could have beat
Binny, giving me sole first.
A Russian gangster!”

Doc shook a finger. “Lys-
mov could also have lost to
Votbinnik, Willie, putting
)^ou in second place.”

“Don’t think evil thoughts.
So long, pals.”

As Angler clattered down
the stairs, Simon Great signed
the waiter for more coffee, lit
a fresh cigarette, took a deep
drag and leaned back.

“You know,” he said “it’s a
great relief not to have to im-
personate the hyperconfident
programmer for awhile. Being
a psychologist has spoiled me
for that sort of thing. I’m not
as good as I once was at beat-
ing people over the head with
my ego.”

“You didn’t do too badly,”
Doc said. ,

“Thanks. Actually, WBM is
very much pleased with the
Machine’s performance. The
Machine’s flaws made it seem
more real and more news-
worthy, especially how it
functioned when the going

by FRITZ LEIBER

got tough — those repairs the
boys made under time pres-
sure in your game, Savilly,
will help sell WBM computers
or I miss my guess. In fact
nobody could have watched
the tournament for long
without realizing there were
nine smart rugged men out
there, ready to kill that com-
puter if they could. The Ma-
chine passed a real test. And
then the whole deal drama-
tizes what computers are
and what they can and can't
do. And not just at the pop-
ular level. The WBM re-
search boys are learning a lot
about computer and program-
ming theory by studying how
the Machine and its program-
mer behave under tournament
stress. It's a kind of test un-
like that provided by any
other computer work. Just
this morning, for instance,
one of our big mathemati-
cians told me that he is be-
ginning to think that the
Theory of Games does apply
to chess, because you can
bluff and counterbluff with
your programming. And Fm
learning about human psy-
chology."

Doc chuckled. ‘'Such as
that even human thinking is
just a matter of how you
program your own mind? —
that we're all like the Ma-
chine to that extent?"

“That's one of the big
points, Savilly. Yes.”

Doc smiled at Sandra. “You
wrote a nice little news-story,
dear, about how Man con-

THE 64-SQUARE MADHOUSE

quered the Machine by a pal-
pitating nose and won a vic-
tory for international amity.

“Now the story starts to go
deeper.”

44 A lot of things go deeper,”
Sandra replied, looking
at him evenly. “Much deeper
than you ever expect at the
start."

The big electric scoreboard
lit up.

FINAL STANDING

Player

Wins

Losses

Angler

Votbinnik

Jal

5^2

Machine

5/2

3/2

Lysmov

Serek

4^2

4/2

Sherevsky

4^/2

Jandorf

3/2

554

Krakatower

2/2

eVz

Grabo

“It was a good tournament,”
Doc said. “And the Machine
has proven itself a grand-
master. It must make you feel
good, Simon, after being out
of tournament chess for twen-
ty years.”

The psychologist nodded.

“Will you go back to psy-
chology now?" Sandra asked
him.

Simon Great smiled. “I can
answer that question honestly.
Miss Grayling, because the
news is due for release. No.
WBM is pressing for entry of
the Machine in the Interzonal
Candidates’ Tournament.

They want a crack at the
World's Championship.”

Doc raised his eyebrows.
“That's news indeed. But look,
Simon, with the knowledge
you've gained in this tourna-
ment won’t you be able to
make the Machine almost a
sure winner in every game?''

“I don't know. Players like
Angler and Lysnwv may find
some more flaws in its func-
tioning and dream up some
new stratagems. Besides,
there's another solution to the
problems raised by having a
single computer entered in a
grandmaster tournament.''

Doc sat up straight. “You
mean having more program-
mer-computer teams than just
one?''

“Exactly. The Russians are
bound to give their best play-
ers computers, considering
the prestige the game has in
Russia. And I wasn’t asking
Willie that question about
IBM just on a hunch. Chess
tournaments are a wonderful
way to test rival , computers
and show them off to the pub-
lic, just like cross-crountry
races were for the early auto-
mobiles. The future grandmas-
ter will inevitably be a pro-
grammer-computer team, a
man-machine symbiotic part-
nership, probably with more
freedom each way than I was
allowed in this tournament— -I
mean the man taking oyer the
play in some positions, the ma-
chine in others.’*

“You’re making my head
swim,'' Sandra said.

is in the same
-‘•▼-■•storm-tossed o c e a n,”
Doc assured her. “Simon, that
will be very fine for the mas-
ters who can get themselves
computers — either from their
governments or from hiring
out to big firms. Or in other
ways. Jandorf, I’m sure, will
be able to interest some Ar-
gentinian millionaire in a
computer for him. While I . . .
oh, I'm too old. . .still, when
I start to think about it...
But what about the Bela
Grabos? Incidentally, did you
know that Grabo is contesting
Jandorf 's win? Claims Jan-
dorf discussed the position
with Serek. I think they ex-
changed about two words.”
Simon shrugged, “The Bela
Grabos will have to continue
to fight their own battles, if
necessary satisfying them-
selves with the lesser tourna-
ments. Believe me, Savilly,
from now on grandmaster
chess without one or more
computers entered will lack
sauce.”

Dr. Krakatower shook his
head and said, “Thinking gets
more expensive every year.”
From the floor came the
harsh voice of Igor Jandorf
and the shrill one of Bela Gra-
bo raised in anger. Three
words came through clearly:
“. . .1 challenge you. . .”

Sandra said, “Well, there’s
something you can’t build into
a machine — ego.”

“dh, I don’t know about
that,” said Simon Great.

END

100

by FRITZ LEIBER

IF • Short Storp

It’s tough to see into minds when

you’re only a child and tougher

still when you see what scares you!

GRAMP

By Charles V. De Vet

UTI77HY is Gramma making
mad pictures at you?”
I asked Cramp.

Gramp looked at me, ”What
pictures, Chum?”

“Pictures in her mind like
you're lazy. And like she
wanted to hurt you,” I said.

Cramp’s eyes got wide. He
kept looking at me, and then
he said, “Get your cap. Chum.
We’re gonna take a little
walk.”

Gramp didn’t say anything
until we walked all the way
to the main road and past Mr.
Watchorn’s corn field. I
walked behind him, counting
the little round holes his
wooden leg made in the grav-
el. Finally Gramp said, “Abra-
cadabra.”

That was our secret worcL

It meant that if I was play-
ing one of our games, I was
to stop for awhile. Gramp and
I had lots of games we played.
One of them was where wc
made believe. Sometimes we’d
play that Gramp and I had
been working all day, when
we really just stayed in the
shade telling stories. Then
when we got home and Gram-
ma as'^ked us what we had
done, we’d tell her about how
hard we had worked.

“I really did see mad pic-
tures in Gramma’s mind,” I
said.

“Have you ever seen pic-
tures in anybody’s mind be-
fore?” Gramp asked.

“I always see them,” I said.
“Don’t you?”

“No,” Gramp said after a

101

minute. ''Other people can't
cither. You're probably the
only little boy who can.”

"Is that bad?”

"No,” Gramp answered. "It's
good. But remember how I
told you that people don’t like
other people who are differ-
ent? Well, even though see-
ing pictures like you do is a
wonderful thing, other people
won’t like you if they know
you can do it. So we’ll just
keep it a secret between us.”
I was glad Gramp told me,
because he always knows the
best things to do. I’m his
Chum. I love him better than
anyone else in the whole
world. Whenever the other
kids tease me and call me
Crazy Joe I go to Gramp and
he tells me funny stories and
makes me laugh.

1 remember the first time he
told me about people hating
other people who are differ-
ent.

"Why do the kids call me
Crazy Joe and laugh at me?”
I asked him.

"Well, you see,” Gramp said
slowly, "your Daddy worked
for Uncle Sam in a big place
where they make things that
the government won’t tell
anybody about. Then your
Daddy got sick from some-
thing in the big place. After
a long time he went up to
stay with God. Then God took
Mommy too, when He gave
you to her. And now you’re
our little boy, mine and Gram-
ma’s. And because you’re a

102

very special kind of little boy,
the other children are jealous.
So I wouldn’t play with them
any more if they tease you.
Just don’t let them see you’re
afraid of them. You’ll always
be Gramp’s Little Joe.”

I love Gramp very much . . .
We kept walking until we
came to Fayette. We went
into Carl Van Remortal’s
store. Gramp sat on a chair by
the big iron stove and I sat
on his knee on his good leg.
The stove must be real old,
because it’s got 1926 on its
door in big iron letters.

"Tell me the pictures you
see in Mr. Van’s mind,” Gramp
whispered in my ear, "but
don’t let him hear you.”

"He’s making pictures of
the fishing boats coming in,”
I ^said. "In the pictures he’s
talking to Jack La Salle and
giving him some money for
his fish... The pictures are
getting all mixed up now. He’s
putting the fish in ice in box-
es, but other pictures show
him in church. Jack La Salle
is in the church too, and Mr.
Van’s sister Margaret is
dressed in a long white dress
and standing alongside him.”
"He’s thinking that Jack La
Salle will be marrying Mar-
garet pretty soon,” Gramp
said. "What else is he think-
ing?”

"The pictures are coming so
fast now that I can’t name
them all,” I said.

Mr. Lawrence St. Ours came
into the store, and Gramp told
me to read what he was think-

by Charles V. De Vet

ing. I looked inside his head.

‘‘He’s making pictures of
himself driving a car, and buy-
ing bread, and bacon, and pil-
ing hay on his farm, and...*^
I said, but then I had to stop.
“All the pictures come so fast
that I can’t read them,” I told
Gramp. “Everybody makes
blurry pictures like that most
of the time.”

“Instead of trying to tell
me what the pictures are, see
if you can understand what
they mean,” Gramp said.

I tried but it was awful hard
and pretty soon I got tired
and Gramp and I left the
store and went back home.

The next morning Gramp
and I went ouF in the barn
and Gramp said, “Now let’s
see what we got here.” He had
me try to do a lot of things,
like lifting something without
touching it, and trying to
make chickens run by making
a picture of them doing that
and putting it in their minds.
But I couldn’t do any of them.

After a while he said, “Let’s
go down to the store again.”

W’^E went to the store al-
most every day after that.
Then sometimes we just
walked around Fayette, and
Gramp had me practice read-
ing what the pictures in peo-
ple’s minds meant instead of
just what they looked like.
Sometimes I did it real good.
Then Gramp would buy me
some candy or ice cream.

One day we were following
Mr. Mears and 1 was telling
GRAMP

Gramp what I saw in Mr.
Mears’ mind when Mr. St.
Ours drove by in his car. “Mr.
Mears is making pictures
about feeding meat to Mr. St.
Ours’s dog and the dog is
crawling away and dying,” I
said to Gramp.

Gramp was real interested.
He said, “Watch close and
read everything you can about
that.” I did. After, Gramp
seemed very happy. He bought
me a big chocolate bar that
time. Chocolate is my best
kind of candy.

I read lots of things in oth-
er people’s minds that made
Gramp feel good too, and he
bought me candy just about
every day.

Gramp seemed to have mon-
ey all the time now instead
of having to ask Gramma for
any. She wanted to know
where he got all the money.
But he just smiled with his
right cheek like he does and
wouldn’t tell her. Most of the
people in town didn’t seem to
like Gramp any more. They
made mad pictures about him
whenever we met them.

Sometimes when we were in
the store Mrs. Van would
come in and she would talk
to me. She was awful nice.
But she always had sad pic-
tures in her mind and some-
times she would cough real
hard and hold a handkerchief
up in front of her mouth.

When she did that Mr. Van
used to get sad too. In his
pictures Mrs. Van would be
dead and laying in a coffin

103

And they would be burying
her in a big hole in the
ground. Mr. Van was nice too.
He gave me crackers and
cookies, or sometimes a big
thin slice of cheese.

One night Gramp was hold-
ing me and buying some gro-
ceries and Mr. Van was put-
ting them in a cardboard box,
and he was thinking about go-
ing to the bank in Escanaba
and cashing a check. And the
man gave him a big handful
of money.

I told Gramp, but then Mr.
Van came close. I didn’t say
an)miore, like Gramp had told
me. Mr. Van was whistling
now. He made pictures of giv-
ing the money to Mrs. Van.
She was getting on a train and
going to a place where it was
sunny all the time, and her
cough went away and she
wasn’t skinny any more. In
his mind Mrs. Van was real
pretty. She didn’t have the
long nose like she really has.

When we got in our car
Gramp was excited. He asked
me where Mr. Van had put
the money he brought back
from Escanaba.

He had bad pictures in his
mind about taking Mr. Van’s
money and I didn’t want to
tell him. But he grabbed my
arm so hard it hurt and I be-
gan to cry. Gramp never hurt
me before.

‘‘What are you crying for?”
he asked me, cranky.

“I don’t want you to take
Mr. Van’s money,” I told him.

Gramp let go of my arm and

104

didn’t say anything for a
while.

“Sometimes the pictures you
see aren’t true,” he said. “You
know that.” He took out his
blue handkerchief and made
me blow my nose. “Like‘ when
yon see pictures in Gramma’s
mind about her hurting me,”
he said. “She never does, you
know. So the pictures aren’t
true. It’s just what we call
imagination.”

“But your pictures are bad !
They make me scared,” I said.

“We all make bad pictures
like that, but we don’t mean
them,” Gramp said. “Remem-
ber how you said that you’d
like to eat the whole apple
pie last Sunday? You prob-
ably made pictures of doing
that. But you never did, be-
cause you know that Gramma
and me should have some of it
too.” I guess Gramp can ex-
plain just about everything.

So I told him where Mr.
Van had hid the money under
a box of brown sugar. Gramp
smiled and started the car.

He let me steer while it was
going slow. “Who’s my
Chum?” he asked.

“I am,” I said, and I laughed
real happy.

The next day when I got
up Gramp was gone.

I went back of the barn and
played. I got a bunch of tin
cans and punched holes in
them with a nail like Gramp
showed me, and I made steps
out of rocks and put a can on
each step. I poured water in

by Charles V. De Vet

the top can. It ran through
the holes from each can to the
other all the way down the
steps.

I heard our car come in the
front yard.

I went around the barn, and
Gramp was just going up the
steps to the house. He had
been to Fairport where the
big store is, and he had bought
a lot of things that he was
carrying in his arms. At first
I was , glad because he had
bought something that was for
me too.

But then I saw some bad
pictures mixed with the hap-
py ones— of Gramp breaking a
window in Mr. Van’s store
when it was dark and going
in and taking something from
underneath the brown sugar
box.

“You told me you wouldn’t
take Mr. Van’s money. And
you did!” I said.

“Ssh,” Gramp said. He put
his packages on the porch and
sat down and took me on his
lap. He took a deep breath.
“Remember what I told you
about imagination, Chum?” he
asked me. “So you know
you’re not supposed to believe
all the pictures you see. Now
you’re Gramp’s Chum. And I
want you to promise me again
not to tell anyone but me
what you see, and I’ll tell you
if the pictures are real or not.
Promise?”

I promised, and Gramp
opened one of the packages.
He took out two new pistols
and a belt with double hol-

GRAMP

sters to carry them in. He
bent over and buckled them
on me.

“You look just like Hoppy
now,” he said.

I gave him a big kiss, and
ran back of the barn to shoot
robbers.

TN the afternoon Gramp was
•Splaying he was a bad In-
dian and trying to scalp me
when a strange car drove in
our yard.

Mr. Van and two men with
badges got out.

Mr. Van was real mad.
“We’ve come after the mon-
ey, Bill,” he said.

Gramp got white. He was
scared, but he said, loud,
“What the hell are you talk-
ing about?”

“You know what, Bill,” Mr.
Van said. “Someone saw you
break into the store. It will
go easier on you if you admit
it.”

“I told you I don’t know
what you’re talking about,”
Gramp said. His eyes moved
kind of quick. Then he no-
ticed me and he walked over
to me. “That’s a fine way to
talk in front of the boy,” he
said over his shoulder. He
took my hand. “Come on.
Chum. We’re going in the
house.”

“Just a minute,” the biggest
policeman said. “We’ve got a
few questions that we have to
ask you.”

Gramp made believe he was
brushing some dirt from my
pants. “Did anyone see me

105

take the money, Chum?" he
whispered to me.

‘"No," I said, even though I
didn’t understand exactly.^
“Mr. Van is just pretending
he knows you took it but he
doesn’t."

“Good boy." Cramp patted
me on the head. “Go into the
house now."

He turned and walked back
to the three men, pushing his
wooden leg into the ground
hard. I didn’t go in the house,
though.

“Now I’ve had just about
enough of this," Gramp said,
with a big frown on his face.
“You can’t bluff me. Van. Say

AND MORE COMPLETE
SETS FOR SALE

1. Complete set of MARVrOL

TALES 1934-1935. 5 issues.

$30.00.

2. Complete set of the “impossi-
ble” L'NKIVOWNS. Onlv 1 set.
39 issues, 1939-1943. liOO.OO.

3. Complete set of PLANET
STORIES, 1940-1955. Over 70
issues, very g^ood condition,
$100.00.

4. Complete set of FAIVTASTIC

ADVENTURES, 1939-1952,

very good condition, $100.00.

5. Complete set of CAPTAIN
FUTURE (17) and the 10 or
so novelettes in STARTLING.
1943-1951, $50.00.

6. Complete set AVON FANTASY

READER (18), complete
AVON S.F. READER (3) &

complete F&SF READER (2)
— 23 issues, fine condition,

$25.00.

Many other complete sets. Send

your want list. All prices F.O.B.

Brooklyn, N.Y.

JAY'S COHNEK

6401 24th Ava. . . . 4,

N.Y,

what you got to say, and get
off my property."

Mr. Van’s shoulders seemed
to sag and he got sad. He
made the pictures in his mind
of Mrs. Van being dead and
being put in a big hole.

It made me so sorry I
couldn’t stand it, and I cried,
“Tell him you got his money
under the seat in our car!
Please, Gramp! Give it back
to him."

Nobody said anything, but
everybody turned and looked
at me.

They stood real still. I saw
in Cramp’s mind that I had
been bad, bad. I ran to him
and put my face in his coat
and began to cry. I couldn’t
help it.

After a minute Gramp knelt
on his good knee in front of
me and took my cheeks in
both his hands.

“I’ve let you down. Chum,"
he said. He wasn’t mad any
more.

He picked me up in his
arms. “You needed me, Little
Joe," he said. “You needed
me." His eyes were all
smudgy. He squeezed me so
hard I couldn’t breathe, al-
most.

Then he put me down and
said, “Come on," to the two
policemen. He walked away
between them.

Gramp !

The pictures in his mind
were awful. I could hardly
bear to look at them.

The worst picture was — me,

I cried and cried. END

106

by Charlos V. Do Vet

IF • Article

by THEODORE STURGEON

the other IF

DACK in 1944, after some
^ tropical adventures, no
writing for 2^ years, and full
of ambitions for my re-entry
into print in the soon-to-be-
had postwar world, I invented
a new magazine. In my na-
ivete, I worked on the idea
late at night when no one else
was around and kept the ma-
terial in a locked file when I
went out, so sure I was that
the idea, if it got into other
hands, would instantly light
up the sky while moneyed
publishers tumbled over one
another’s shoulders trying to
force currency on the thief.
The time came, however, when
even I had to realize that one
just doesn’t produce a maga-
zine single-handed, perform-
ing all functions unseen by
others until it hits the stands;
no, not even if one’s name is
Leo Margulies.

About this time I began to
get letters from one Groff
Conklin about, of all things,
his desire to start a new maga-
zine after the war was over. I

had not yet met Groff (now
one of my most valued
friends) and I wish I had a
multiflanged double-ended de-
temporizer so I could travel
back through time and see
through his eyes what he
thought of me and my wild
idea, and at the same time re-
capture my picture of him. All
I can tell you for sure is that
I must have seemed much
more knowledgeable than I
actually was, and he seemed
as energetically warm and en-
thusiastic as he actually is.
And then, somewhere along
the line, we got busy, he with
his anthologies, I with my sto-
ries. Maybe it was just the
matter of a hundred thousand
bucks or so for capital, which
neither of us seemed to have
at the time. But we did quite a
bit of work on it. I designed
a cover and had an artist
friend render it for me. It was
very stHking, somewhat along
the lines of an old Unknoiyn
typographical cover, with a
background of hemorrhage

107

brown and lettering which,
planned as crushed grape,
came out as bruised broccoli.
The two letters of the title,
lower case and quite fat, start-
ed in the upper left-hand cor-
ner and their pedestals ran all
the way to the bottom.

We called it— IF.

The years went by and oth-
er things piled up, and the
file of correspondence, the
prospectus, the calculations
and the cover dummy fell into
a drawer somewhere (no long-
er locked) and stayed there
until one day I got a phone
call from one Paul Fairman,
a nice guy and a pretty fair
country writer as well. He
was starting a new magazine
and he was calling it IF. All
knowledgeable again, I had
lunch with him and gave him
a lot of good advice about how
he couldn’t get any stories un-
less he had money to pay for
them and he couldn’t get that
without a publisher, and it
wasn’t the right time to start a
magazine. I gave him the cov-
er dummy as a booby prize
and he thanked me for every-
thing. He then went out and
got money and backing and
stories (one of them from me)
and started the magazine. It
has existed more or less con-
stantly ever since. It has
changed publishers and edi-
tors and format; and just to
complete the series of unlike-
ly blows IF and I haye glanc-
ingly struck one another dur-
ing our careers, I now find
myself one of its editors

108

while living ten miles away
from where Mr. James Quinn
used to publish it, and Larjy
Shaw used to edit it.

But for all its growth and
change, IF has never become
my IF — the other IF. I do not
intend to make it so. There is,
however, meat enough in its
basic idea to afford you some
pretty fascinating chewing.
The moral, in case one is
called for, would seem to be
that your nova-burst of an in-
spiration might serve, one
day, to illuminate a few inner
pages. Or maybe it’s aim for
the stars, you’ll reach the
treetops.

The other IF was to be a
sort of science fiction
magazine. But unlike any-
thing else in the field, it was
to be built around what, to me,
was (and is) the most com-
pelling single component of
some science fiction — extra-
polation, or what I like to call
“gunsight vision. You line up
something near at hand with
something not quite so near,
but real and reachable. Sight-
ing the line between them,
your vision is aligned by them
to something r e m o t e — ^but
clearly indicated. If I learn
about a synchrotron, and then
find out that the circular
track can be straightened out
to make a linear accelerator,
I can by this knowledge clear-
ly visualize a ray cannon or a
space, drive on the same gen-
eral principles. If I read about
ground-effect cars, and then

BY THEODORE STURGEON

find out that someone has de-
signed a hand-pushed utility
car not powered, merely lifted
by a small motor, I can visual-
ize immensely long trains
traveling over a highway built
like a shallow ditch, pulled
by a more or less conventional
truck-tractor, with perhaps a
wheeled caboose for braking.

The principle works with
people, too. One of the narra-
tive knacks so generously giv-
en me by Will Jenkins (Mur-
ray Leinster) during those
visits I mentioned in the last
issue uses the same basic
theory. To create plot from
character, he told me, you
take someone you know and
understand and put him in a
(for him) totally impossible
situation. Then you let him
work his way out of it by be-
ing himself — by being uncon-
querably, unswervingly and in
all respects himself. His illus-
tration was the yarn of a sea
captain who after a storm
found himself alone in the
ocean with a bit of driftwood.
What he was was a captain —
which he couldn’t be because
he had no ship. His way out
(in typical Leinster ‘Vhat’s he
doing that for?” prose) was to
hold up his shirt on a stick to
catch the wind for nine hours,
then to drift quietly for two
days, then to use the shirt
again for six hours, where-
upon he reached an island.
Being what he was, he knew
his exact position when he
lost his ship, he knew the pre-
vailing winds, he knew the

Hie other IF

currents in the area. The
germane point here is that
when he had no ship to com-
mand, he became one.

Another common example is
the sweet little old lady thrust
into the den of thieves, throw-
ing them all into conniptions
with her unchanging concern
with tea-time and vespers. In
short, take two mismatched
knowns, extend the line be-
tween them and they’ll point
out a discovery,

Now,*,if you want to extra-
polate in more detail, and/or
with more accuracy, the rifle-
sights — two points — are not
enough. Put just three points
on a sheet of graph paper and
join them, and you have a
curve with certain character-
istics. You can extend this,
keeping the same characteris-
tics, a distance beyond the
third known point, with a rea-
sonable assumption that when
the fourth point is discovered
it will lie in your curve. You
can’t extend it too far, though,
and still expect reasonable ac-
curacy. But with five points —
fifty — five hundred — the ex-
act nature of your curve be-
comes so apparent that you
have to be right when you ex-
tend it. You can write good
sfc/ence- fiction this way —
studying known science until
you know it so well you can
make a fair extrapolation. You
can write good science-fiction
by studying just as hard and
then throwing a wild factor
in somewhere up in the extra-
polated area — ^precisely what

109

Asimov did in the Foundation
series when he introduced The
Mule into the millennia-long
‘‘future history** drawn up by
the psycho-historian Selden,

NOW we’re getting close to
the mainspring of the oth-
er IF. Some years ago Jim
Blish got so exercised by the
alarming growth of the New
York Port Authority, a local
phenomenon which builds and
operates tunnels, bridges and
airports in the New York-New
Jersey complex, that he sharp-
ened up his typewriter and in
seventy-some thousand words
showed what would happen if
this went on for two or three
hundred years. Poul Anderson
wrote two brilliant interplane-
tary stories, one clearly about
NATO, the other dealing with
the Marshall Plan, These
three stories, and L. Ron Hub-
bard’s Final Blackout, are
yarns I’d have taken for the
other IF had there been one
(and if other editors hadn’t
gotten there first.)

This kind of thing would
have been the body of the
magazine; but the departure,
the scintillating Idea, was the
one, or possibly two items in
each issue under the general
classification If this goes
on. . .

(That happens to be a Hein-
lein title. I am not referring
to his story. Just look at the
words.)

Now, every citizen makes
this kind of extrapolation all
the time. If the boss slams his

110

hat on the rack and doesn’t
answer the receptionist’s
“G’morning” you have evi-
dence from ’way back what
kind of morning it’s going to
be. If your older brother has
moaned his way through Al-
gebra 3 with Miss G., well-
known battle-axe, for a teach-
er, you know pretty much
what’s in store for you that
fine September morn when
you find yourself in her class.
Or turn the thing around and
get into the hindsight depart-
ment. When Sue marries Joe
instead of Sam, to your utter
astonishment, and then you
suddenly slap yourself on the
head and say “of course! Re-
member when they. . .and that
other time... and the thing
that happened at the Christ-
mas party ...” and it all
abruptly makes sense ; well,
say you had had the wit to
notice and correctly interpret
those things; you’d have been
able to predict that marriage,
wouldn’t you?

To get printed in this spe-
cial section of the other IF,
then, you’d have to look about
you and see what’s going on.
You have to study it until you
understand it. You’d have to
wait, perhaps, until something
new happened, giving you two
points — the rifle-sights. And
then study out more points,
five, fifty, five hundred, until
you felt able to extrapolate
—oh, two days, a week, four
years, ten. Then you’d write
the piece and send it in, and
if in four years or ten you

BY THEODORE STURGEON

proved to be dead wrong, it
would be just because you
didn’t plot enough points.
(Unless there was a wild fac-
tor ; and even those can be
predicted sometimes. Your
hindsight tells you so.)

I dreamed such dreams
about the other IF! It’d be on
the stands a few months, see,
and then I’d get this letter
from a young government of-
ficial suggesting it might be
time for a conservative reviv-
al, and ‘‘B. Goldwater” would
go on the table of contents. A
Mr. Willkie would write a
reasoned conviction that we
are one species and one world.
A minor union official would
predict that the auto workers
would one day ask for a guar-
anteed annual wage, and Reu-
ther would go into the semi-
annual. index. An obscure ref-
ugee scientist named Wernher
would write a piece with the
laughable conclusion that the
Russians would be first with
a satellite. Finally, years later.
Time would do a takeout on
IF in the Press section, under
the caption Newsstand Nos-
tradamus or Pulp Prognosti-
cator, with a cut of me holding
up the table of contents of the
June 1946 issue, with my fin-
ger on the article, Why I Can't
Lose in '48, by H. S. Truman.
Wonderful, wonderful dreams
And yet. ^ .

And yet, wouldn’t it be
wonderful to make a rea-
soned prediction, see it in
print three months Jater, and

the other IF,

have it coincide with that very
day’s headlines? And what if
you goof? I used to own a 1939
Readers Digest bearing an ar-
ticle about Why Japan Will
Never Fight a War Against
the U.S. I read an 1804 article
(I suspect by a stockholder in
a canal-boat firm) reasoning
very plausibly that a locomo-
tive could not pull a train be-
cause only one mathematical
point of each wheel was tan-
gent to the track, and the cars
(“carriages,” he said) would
just be too heavy to start mov-
ing. So what? You can take it.

And I do mean you. I really
do.

I have not only a liking, but
a profound respect for the
kind of mind which reads sci-
ence fiction. It’s a good mind.
It recognizes no horizons. It
is not afraid to go far out.
And in many cases its ability
to reason goes all the way
from the awesome to the
frightening. S-f has predicted
a lot, has been wrong more of-
ten than right, but has never,
I do believe, really and truly
tried to predict from the here
and how to 90 days off. Are
you game ? Do you want to try
it? If you do, I’ll go along
with you for two issues. Then
we’ll skip one and take stock.

The time element is perfect
for this caper. It takes just
about three months from the
time you mail it for it to be
printed and distributed.
You’re reading this as spring
starts to stir the turf. I write
it in early December. Major

111

Glenn has not yet been
launched. Governor Rockefel-
ler, newly returned from the
South Pacific, announces a
shelter plan for everybody
every place, over and above
homes and schools. Swedish
U.N. planes have just bombed
a Katangese airport. Arc you
oriented?

Then let me establish a for-
mat, and stick my own neck
out. I want you to notice that
these are not wild guesses; if
you want to go a little deeper
into your reasoning, by all
means do so.

PREDICTION ONE

^Elizabeth Taylor*s Cleo-
patra will he finished and re-
leased,

%Blondes will be '*out** bru-
nettes **in,'*

^Shoulder-length hair, with
bangs, will be The Thing,
%Necklines will do something
they haven*t done publicly
since Louis XIV,

PREDICTION TWO

%Many schools are over-
crowded and operating on
shifts because funds cannot be
found for building additions,
%School fallout shelters fre-
quently cost more than build-
ing additions,

^Therefore by the time this
appears there will have been
news stories about at least
seven violent protests by par-
ent-taxpayers against the in-
stallation of shelters in

112

schools which have not been
able to build additions,

PREDICTION THREE

%Jack Paar has managed to
be in several kinds of spectac-
ular trouble.

%He is due to leave the air in
March,

%He will do so in the midst
of the most elaborate trouble
he has yet managed.

Get the idea? It would, of
course, be preferable if your
predictions were scientific or
bore on s-f; mine come right
off the top of my head, where
the point is. All right : here
are the ground rules:

1. Deadline for the Septem-
ber issue (due out in July):
March 20. Deadline for the
November issue (due out in
September) : May 25. (That
means I’ll be able to feature
some of your best at the Chi-
con : Pick-Congress Hotel,
Chicago, Aug. 31 — Sept. 3.)

2. No big prizes: this is for
kicks. And for research: I
know you are capable of ob-
serving enough contributory
details, of sensing the trend
of events accurately enough,
to come up with some truly
startling results. (But just to
make the game more interest-
ing, we’ll reward some of the
best guesses with free IF sub-
scriptions.)

3. And please — no corre-

spondence except through
these pages. END

BY THEODORE STURGEON

IF • Short Story

It was just a little black box,
useful for getting rid of things.
Trouble was, it worked too well!

THE EXPENDABLES

BY JIM HARMON

see my problem,
, 1 Professor?’’ Tony Car-
men held his pinkly mani-
cured, flashily ringed hands
wide.

I saw his problem and it
was warmly embarrassing.

‘'Really, Mr. Carmen,” I
said, “this isn’t the sort of
thing you discuss, with a total
stranger. I’m not a, doctor —
not of medicine, , anyway — or
a lawyer.”

“They can’t help me. I need
an operator in your line.”

“I work for the United
States government. I can’t be-
come involved in anything
illegal.”

Carmen smoothed down the
front of his too-tight mid-
night blue suit and touched
the diamond sticking in his
silver tie. You can’t. Professor
Venetti? Ever hear of the
Mafia?”

“I’ve heard of it,” I said
uheasily. “An old fraternal

organization something like
the Moose or Rosicrucians,
founded in Sicily. It alleged-
ly controls organized crime in
the U.S. But that is a respon-
sibility-eluding myth that
honest Italian-Americans are
stamping out. We don’t even
like to see the word in print.”
“I can understand honest
Italian-Americans feeling that
way. But guys like me know
the Mafia is still with it. We
can put the squeeze on marks
like you pretty easy.”

You don’t have to tell even
a third generation American
about the Mafia. Maybe that
was the trouble. I had heard
too much and for too long. All
the stories I had ever heard
about the Mafia, true or false,
built up an unendurable threat.

“All tight, I’ll try to help
you; Carmen. But... that is,
you> didn’t kill any of these
people?”

He snorted. “I haven’t killed

113

anybody since early 1943.”

. ‘'Please I said weakly.
“You needn’t incriminate
yourself with me.”

“I was in the Marines,”
Carmen said hotly. “Listen,
Professor, these aren’t no Pro-
hibition times. Not many peo-
ple get made for a hit these
days. Mother, most of these
bodies they keep ditching at
my club haven’t been mur-
dered by anybody. They’re ac-
cident victims. Rumbums with
too much anti-freeze for a
summer’s day, Spanish-Ameri-
can War vets going to visit
Teddy in the natural course of
events. Harry Keno just stows
them at my place to embarrass
me. Figures to make me lose
my liquor license or take a
contempt before the Grand
Jury.”

“I don’t suppose you could
just go to the police — ” I saw
the answer in his eyes. “No. I
don’t suppose you could.”

“I told you once, Professor,
but I’ll tell you again. I have
to get rid of these bodies they
keep leaving in my kitchen. I
can take ’em and throw them
in the river, sure. But what if
me or my boys are stopped en
route by some tipped badge?”
“Quicklime?” I suggested
automatically.

“What are you talking
about? Are you sure you’re
some kind of scientist? Lime
doesn’t do much to a stiff at
all. Kind of putrifies them
like. .

“I forgot,” I admitted. “I’d
read it in so many stories I’d

forgotten it wouldn’t work.
And I suppose the furnace
leaves ashes and there’s al-
ways traces of hair and teeth
in the garbage disposal. . . An
interesting problem, at that.”
“I figured you could handle
it,” Carmen said, leaning back
comfortably in the favorite
chair of my bachelor apart-
ment. “I heard you were work-
ing on something to get rid of
trash for the government.”
“That,” I told him, “is re-
stricted information. I sub-
contracted that work from the
big telephone laboratories.
How did you find it out?”
“Ways, Professor, ways.”
The government did want
me to find a way to dispose of
wastes — radioactive wastes. It
was the most important prob-
lem any country could have in
this time of growing atomic
industry. Now a small-time
gangster was asking me to use
this research to help him dis-
pose of hot corpses. It made
my scientific blood seeth. But
the shadow of the Black Hand
cooled it off.

“Maybe I can find some-
thing in that area of research
to help you,” I said. “I’ll call
you.”

“Don’t take too long. Pro-
fessor,” Carmen said cordially.

The big drum topped with
a metallic coolie’s hat had
started out as a neutralizer for
radioactivity. Now I didn’t
know what to call it.

The A EC had found bury-
ing canisters of hot rubbish

114

BY JIM HARMON

in the desert or in the Gulf
had eventually proved unsat-
isfactory. Earth tremors or
changes of temperature split
the tanks in the ground, caus-
ing leaks. The undersea con-
tainers rusted and corroded
through the time, poisoning
fish and fishermen.

Through the SBA I had
been awarded a subcontract to
work on the problem. The
ideal solution would be to find
a way to neutralize radioactive
emanations, alpha, beta, X et
cetera. (No, my dear, et cetera
rays aren’t any more danger-
ous than the rest.) But this is
easier written than done.

Of course, getting energy to
destroy energy without pro-
ducing energy or matter is a
violation of the maxim of the
conservation of energy. But I
didn’t let that stop me — any
more than I would have let the
velocity of light put any limi-
tations on a spacecraft engine
had I been engaged to work
on one. You can’t allow other
people’s ideas to tie you hand
and foot. There are some who
tell me, however, that my re-
fusal to honor such time-test-
ed cliches is why I only have
a small private laboratory
owned by myself, my late
wife’s father and the bank,
instead of working in the vast
facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or
General Motors. To this, I can
only smile and nod.

But even refusing to be
balked by conservative ideas,
I failed.

I could not neutralize radio-

activity. All I had been able
to do (by a basic disturbance
in the electromagnetogravita-
tional co-ordinant system for
Earth-Sun) was to reduce the
mass of the radioactive matter.

This only concentrated the
radiations, as in boiling con-
taminated water. It did make
the hot stuff vaguely easier to
handle, but it was no break-
through on the central prob-
lem.

Now, in the middle of this,
I was supposed to find a way
to get rid of some damned
bodies for Carmen.

Pressed for time and know-
ing the results wouldn’t have
to be so precise or carefully
defined for a racketeer as for
the United States government,
I began experimenting.

I cut corners.

I bypassed complete safety
circuits.

I put dangerous overloads
on some transformers and
doodled with the wiring dia-
grams. If I got some kmd of
passable incinerator I would
be happy.

T turned the machine on.

The lights popped out.

There were changes that
should be made before I tried
that again, but instead I only
found a larger fuse for a
heavier load and jammed that
in the switchbox.

I flipped my machine into
service once again. The lights
flickered and held.

The dials on my control
board told me the story. It
was hard to take.

THE EXPENDABLES

115

• But there it was.

The internal scale showed
z^rb.

I had had a slightly hot bar
of silver alloy inside. It was
completely gone. Mass zero.
The temperature gauge
showed that there had been no
charige in centigrade reading
that ' couldn’t be explained by
the mechanical operation of
the machine itself. There had
been no sudden discharge of
electricity or radioactivity.
I checked for a standard anti-
gtavity effect but there was
none. Gravity inside the cylin-
der had gone to zero but never
to minus.

I was at last violating con-
servation of energy — not by
successfully inverting the
cube of the ionization factor,
but by destroying: mass. . .by
simply making it cease to ex-
ist with no cause-and-effect
side effects.

I knew the government
wouldn’t be interested, since
I couldn’t explain how my de-
vice worked. No amount of
successful demonstration
could ever convince anybody
with any scientific training
that it actually did work:

But I shrewdly judged that
Tony Carmen wouldn’t ask an
embarrassing “how” when he
was incapable of understand-
ing the explanation.

does it

' Work?” Tony Carmen de-
manded of me, sleeking his
mifror-black hair and staring
up at the disk-topped drum.

“Why do you care?” I
asked' irritably. “It will dis-
pose of yoiir bodies for you.”
“I got a reason that goes be-
yond the stiff, but let’s stick
to that just for now. Where
are these bodies going? I don’t
warit them winding up in the
D.A.’s bathtub.”

“Why not? How could they
trace them back to you?”
“You’re the scientist,” Tony
said hotly. “I got great respect
for those crime lab boys. May-
be the stiff got some of my
exclusive brand of talc on it,
I don’t know.”

’‘Listen here, Carmen,” I
said, “what makes you think
these bodies are going some-
where? Think of it only as a
kind of — incinerator.”

“Not on your life. Professor.
The gadget don’t get hot so
how can it burn? It don’t use
enough electricity to fry. It
don’t cut ’em up or crush ’em
down, or dissolve them in
acid. I’ve seen disappearing
cabinets before.”

Mafia or not, I saw red.
“Are you daring to suggest
that I am working some trick
with trap doors or sliding
panels?”

“Easy, Professor,” Carmen
said, effortlessly shoving me
back with one palm. “I’m not
saying you have the machine
rigged. It’s just that you have
to be dropping the Stuff
through a sliding panel in-
well, everything around ' us.
You’re sliding all thait aside
and dropping things through.
But I Want to know where

BY JIM HARMON

116

they wind up. Reasonable?”
Carmen was an uneducated
lout and a criminal but he had
an instinctive feel for the
mechanics of physics.

“I don’t know where the
stuff goes, Carmen,” I finally
admitted. ”It might go into
another plane of existence.
'Another dimension’ the
writers for the American
Weekly would describe it. Or
into our past, or our future.”
The swarthy racketeer
pursed his lips and apparently
did some rapid calculation.

”I don’t mind the first two,
but I don’t like them going
into the future. If they do
that, they may show up again
in six months.”

”Or six million years.”
''You’ll have to cut that fu-
ture part out, Professor.”

I was beginning to get a
trifle impatient. All those folk
tales I had heard about the
Mafia were getting more dis-
tant. "See here. Carmen, I
could lie to you and say they
went into the prehistoric past
and you would never know the
difference. But the truth is, I
just don’t know where the
processed material goes.
There’s a chance it may go
into the future, yes. But un-
less it goes exactly one year
or exactly so many years it
would appear in empty space
. . because the earth will have
moved from the spot it was
transmitted. I don’t know for
sure. Perhaps the slight De-
neb-ward movement of the
Solar System would wreck a

perfect three-point landing
even then and cause the dis-
patched materials to burn ap
from atmospheric friction,
like meteors. You will just
have to take a chance on the
future. That’s the best I can
do.”

Carmen inhaled deeply,
"Okay. I’ll risk it. Pretty long
odds against any squeal on the
play. How many of these
things can you turn out, Pro-
fessor?”

"I can construct a duplicate
of this device so that you may
destroy the unwanted corpses
that you would have me be-
lieve are delivered to you with
the regularity of the morning
milk run.”

The racketeer waved that
suggestion aside. "I’m talking
about a big operation, Venetti.
These things can take the
place of incinerators, garbage
disposals, waste baskets...”

"Impractical,” I snorted,
"You don’t realize the tre-
mendous amount of electrical
power these devices re-
quire. . .”

"Nuts! From what you said,
the machine is like a TV set;
it takes a lot of power to get
it started, but then on it coasts
on its own generators.”

ii'^HERE’S something to
A what you say,” I admit-
ted in the face of his unex-
pected information. "But I
can hardly turn my invention
over to your entirely persua-
sive salesmen, I’m sure. This
is part of the results of an

THE EXPENDABLES

117

investigation for the govern-
ment. Washington will have
to decide what to do with the
machine.’*

‘‘Listen, Professor,” Carmen
began, “the Mafia — ”

“What makes you think I’m
any more afraid of the Mafia
than I am of the F.B.I.? I may
have already sealed my fate
by letting you in on this
much. Machinegunning is
hardly a less attractive fate to
me than a poor security rat-
ing. To me, being dead pro-
fessionally would be as bad as
being dead biologically.”

Tony Carmen laid a heavy
hand on my shoulder. I final-
ly deduced he intended to be
cordial.

“Of course,” he said smooth-
ly “you have to give this to
Washington but there are
ways, Professor. I know. I’m a
business man — ”

“You are?** I said.

He named some of the busi-
nesses in which he held large
shares of stock.

“You are.^'

“I’ve had experience in this
sort of thing. We simply leak
the information to a few hun-
dred well selected persons
about all that your machine
can do. We’ll call ’em Ex-
pendables, because they can
expend anything.”

“I,” I interjected, “planned
to call it the Venetti Ma-
chine.”

“Professor, who calls the
radio the Marconi these
days?”

“There are Geiger-Muller

Counters, though,” I said.

“You don’t have to give a
Geiger counter the sex appeal
of a TV set or a hardtop con-
vertible. We’ll call them Ex-
pendables. No home will be
complete v/ithout one.”

“Perfect for disposing of
unwanted bodies,” I mused.
“The murder rate will go
alarmingly with those devices
within easy reach.”

“Did that stop Sam Colt or
Henry Ford?” Tony Carmen
asked reasonably. . .

Naturally, I was aware that
the government would not be
interested in my machine. I
am not a Fortean, a' psychic, a
psionicist or a screwball. But
the government frequently
gets things it doesn’t know
what to do with — like air-
planes in the ’twenties. When
it doesn’t know what to do, it
doesn’t do it.

There have been hundreds
of workable perpetual motion
machines patented, for exam-
ple. Of course, they weren’t
vices in the strictest sense of
the word. Many of them used
the external power of gravity'
they would wear out or slow
down in time from friction,
but for the meanwhile, for
some ten to two hundred
years they would just sit
there, moving. No one had
ever been able to figure
out what to do with them.

I knew the AEC wasn’t go-
ing to dump tons of radioac-
tive waste (with some possible
future reclaimation value)
into a machine which they

118

BY JIM HARMON

didn’t believe actually could
work.

Tony Carmen knew exactly
what to do with an Expend-
able once he got his hands on
it.

Naturally, that was what I
had been afraid of.

The closed sedan was warm,
even in early December.
Outside, the street was a
progression of shadowed block
forms. I was shivering slight-
ly, my teeth rattling like the
porcelain they were. Was this
the storied ‘‘ride,” I won-
dered?

Carmen finally returned to
the car, unlatched the door
and slid in. He did not rein-
sert the ignition key. I did not
feel like sprinting down the
deserted street.

“The boys will have it set
up in a minute,” Tony the
racketeer informed me.
“What?” The firing squad?
“The Expendable, of
course.”

“Here? You dragged me out
here to see how you have
prostituted my invention? I
presume you’ve set it up with
a ‘Keep Our City Clean’ sign
pasted on it.”

He chuckled. It was a some-
what nasty sound, or so I
imagined.

A flashlight winked in the
sooty twilight.

“Okay. Let’s go,” Tony
said, slapping my shoulder.

I got out of the car, rub-
bing my flabby bicep. When-
ever I took my teen-age

daughter to the beach from
my late wife’s parents’ home,
I frequently found 230 pound
bullies did kick sand in my
ears.

The machine was installed
on the corner, half covered
with a gloomy white shroud,
and fearlessly plugged into
the city lighting system via a
blanketed streetlamp. Two
hoods hovered in a doorway
ready to take care of the first
cop with a couple of fifties or
a single .38, as necessity dic-
tated.

Tony guided my elbow.
“Okay, Professor, I think I
understand the bit now, but
I’ll let you run it up with the
flagpole for me, to see how it
waves to the national anthem.”

“Here?” I spluttered once
more. “I told you, Carmen, I
wanted nothing more to do
with you. Your check is still
on deposit. . . ”

“You didn’t want anything
to do with me in the first
place.” The thug’s teeth
flashed in the night. “Throw
your contraption into gear,
buddy.”

That was the first time the
tone of respect, even if faked,
had^ gone out of his voice. I
moved to the switchboard of
my invention. What remained
was as simple as adjusting a
modern floor lamp to a me-
dium light position. I flipped.

Restraining any impulse to-
' ward colloqualism, I was also
deeply disturbed by what next
occurred.

One of the massive square

THE EXPENDABLES

119

shapes on the horizon van-
ished.

“What have you done?” I
yelped, ripping the cover off
the machine.

Even under the uncertain il-
lumination of the smogged
stars I could see that the unit
was half gone — in fact, exact-
ly halved.

“Squint the Seal is one of
my boys. He used to be a me-
chanic in the old days for
Burger, Madle, the guys who
used to rob banks and stuff.”
There was an unmistakable
note of boyish admiration in
Carmen’s voice. “He figured
the thing would work like
that. Separate the poles and
you increase the size of the
working area.”

“You mean square the oper-
ational field. Your idiot
doesn’t even know mechanics.”

“No, but he knows all about
how any kind of machine
works.”

“You call that working?” I
demanded. “Do you realize
what you have there, Car-
men?”

“Sure. A disintegrator ray,
straight out of Startling Sto-
ries/*

My opinion as to the type
of person who followed the
pages of science-fiction mag-
azines with fluttering lips and
tracing finger was upheld.

I looked at the old ware-
house and of course didn’t see
it.

“What was this a test for?”
I asked, fearful of the Frank-
enstein I had made. “What

are you planning to do now?”
“This was no test, Vcnetti.
This was it. I just wiped out
Harry Keno and his intimates
right in the middle of their
confidential squat.”

“Good heavens. That’s un-
couthly old-fashioned of you.
Carmen ! Why, that’s mur-
der/*

“Not,” Carmen said, “with-
out no corpus delecti/*

“The body of the crime re-
mains without the body of the
victim,” I remembered from
my early Ellery Queen train-
ing.

“You’re talking too much.
Professor,” Tony suggested.
“Remember, you did it with
your machine.”

“Yes,” I said at length.
“And why are we standing
here lettmg those machines
sit there?”

There were two small items
of interest to me in the
Times the following morning.

One two-inch story — ^barely
making page one because of a
hole to fill at the bottom of an
account of the number of vic-
tims of Indian summer heat
prostration — told of the incin-
eration of a warehouse on
Fleet Street by an ingenious
new arson bomb that left “vir-
tually” no trace. (Maybe the
fire inspector had planted a
few traces to make his expla-
nation more creditable.)

The second item was fur-
ther over in a science column
just off the editorial page. It
told of the government — !—

120

BY JIM HARMON

developing a new process of
waste disposal rivaling the old
-Buck Rogers disintegrator
ray.

This, I presumed, was one
of Tony Carmen’s information
leaks.

If he hoped to arouse the
public into demanding my in-
vention I doubted he would
succeed. The public had been
told repeatedly of a new ra-
dioactive process for preserv-
ing food and a painless way
of spraying injections through
the skin. But they were still
stuck with refrigerators and
hypodermic needles.

I had forced my way half-
way through the paper and the
terrible coffee I made when
the doorbell rang.

I was hardly surprised when
it turned out to be Tony Car-
men behind the front door.

He pushed in, slapping a
rolled newspaper in his palm.
‘‘Action, Professor.”

“The district attorney has
indicted you?” I asked hope-
fully.

“He’s not even indicted you,
Venetti. No, I got a feeler on
this plant in the Times/*

I shook my head. “The gov-
ernment will take over the in-
vention, no matter what the
public wants.”

“The public? Who cares
about the public? The Arci-
vox corporation wants this
machine of yours. They have
their agents tracing the plant
now. They will go from the
columnist to his legman to my
man and finally to you; Won’t

THE EXPENDABLES

be long before they get here.
An hour maybe.^

“Arcivox makes radios and
TV sets. What do they want
with the Expendables?”
“Opening up a new appli-
ance line with real innova-
tions. I hear they got a new
refrigerator. All open. Just
shelves — no doors or sides.
They want a revolutionary
garbage disposal too.”

“Do you own stock in the
company? Is that how you
know?”

“I own stock in a competi-
tor. That’s how I know,” Car-
men informed me. “Listen,
Professor, you can sell to
Arcivox and still keep control
6f the patents through a sep-
arate corporation. And I’ll
give you 49% of its stock.”
This was Carmen’s idea of
a magnanimous offer for my
invention. It was a pretty
good offer — 49% and my good
health.

“But will the government
let Arcivox have the machine
for commercial use?”

“The government would let
Arcivox have the hydrogen
bomb if they found a commer-
cial use for it.”

There was a sturdy knock
on the door, not a shrill ring
of the bell.

“That must be Arcivox
now,” Carmen growled. “They
have the best detectives in the
business. You know what to
tell them?”

I knew what to tell them.

121

I peeled off my wet shirt and
threw it across the corner of
my desk, casting a reproving
eye at the pastel air-condition-
er in the window. It wasn't
really the machine's fault —
The water department report-
ed the reservoir too low to
run water-cooled systems. It
would be a day or two before I
could get the gas type into my
office.

Miss Brown, my secretary,
was getting a good look at my
pale, bony chest. Well, for the
salary she got, she could stand
to look. Of course, she herself
was wearing a modest one-
strap sun dress, not shorts and
halters like some of the girls.

“My," she observed “it cer-
tainly is humid for March,
isn’t it. Professor Venetti?"

I agreed that it was.

She got her pad and pencil
ready.

“Wheedling form letter to
Better Mousetraps. Where are
our royalties for the last quar-
ter of the year? We know we
didn’t have a full three
months with our Expendable
Field in operation on the new
traps, but we want the payola
for what we have coming.

“Condescending form letter
to Humane Lethal Equipment.
Absolutely do not send the
California penal system any
chambers equipped with our
patented field until legisla-
ture officially approves them.
We got away with it in New
Mexico, but we're older and
wiser now.

“Rush priority telegram to

President, United States, kny
time in the next ten days.
Thanks for citation, et cetera.
Glad buddy system working
out well ir^ training battlefield
disintegrator teams.

“Indignant form letter to
Arcivox. We do not feel we
are properly a co-respondent
in your damage suits. Small
children and appliances have
always been a problem, viz ice
boxes and refrigerators. Sug-
gest you put a more compli-
cated latch on the handles of
the dangerously inferior doors
you have covering our effi-
cient, patented field.”

I leaned back and took a
breather. There was no get-
ting around it — I just wasn’t
happy as a business man. I had
been counting on being only a
figurehead in the Expendable
Patent Holding Corporation,
but Tony Carmen didn't like
office work. And he hadn't
anyone he trusted any more
than me. Even.

I jerked open a drawer and
pulled off a paper towel from
the roll I had stolen in the
men's room. Scrubbing mv
chest and neck with it, I
smoothed it out and dropped
it into the wastebasket. It slid
down the tapering sides and
through the narrow slot above
the Expendable Field. I had
redesigned the wastebaskets
after a janitor had stepped in
one. But Gimpy was happy
now, with the $50,000 we paid
him.

I opened my mouth and
Miss Brown's pencil perked

BY JIM HAR«I|6n

122

up its eraser, reflecting her
fierce alertness*

Tony Carmen banged open
the door, and I closed my
mouth.

“G-men on the way here,” he
blurted and collapsed into a
chair opposite Miss Brown.

“Don’t revert to type,” I
warned him. “What kind of
G-Men? FBI? FCC? CIA?
FDA? USTD?”
“Investigators for the
Atomic Energy Commission.”
The solemn, conservatively
dressed young man in the door
touched the edge of his snap-
brim hat as he said it.

“Miss Brown, would you
mind letting our visitor use
your chair?” I asked.

“Not at all, sir,” she said
dreamily.

“May I suggest,” I said
“that we might get more busi-
ness done if you then removed
yourself from the chair first.”
Miss Brown leaped to her
feet with a healthy galvanic
response and quit the vicinity
with her usual efficiency.

ONCE seated, the AEC man
said “I’ll get right to the
point. You may find this trou-
blesome, gentlemen, but your
government intends to comfis-
cate all of the devices using
your so-c ailed Expendable
field, and forever bar their
manufacture in this country or
their importation.''

“You stinking G-men aren’t
getting away with this," Car-
men said ingratiatingly, “Ever
heat of the Mafia?"

“Not much,” the young man
admitted earnestly, “since the
FBI finished with its deporta-
tions a few years back.”

I cleared my throat. “I must
admit that the destruction of a
multi-billion business is dis-
concerting before lunch. May
we ask why you took this
step?”

The agent inserted a finger
between his collar and tie.
“Have you noticed how unsea-
sonably warm it is?”

“I wondered if you had.
You’re going to have heat
prostration if you keep that
suit coat on five minutes
more.”

The young man collapsed
back in his chair, loosening
the top button of his ivy
league jacket, looking from
my naked hide to the gos-
somer scrap of sport shirt
Carmen wore. “We have to
dress inconspicuously in the
service,” he panted weakly.

I nodded understandingly.
“What does the heat have to
do with the outlawing of the
Expendables?”

“At first we thought there
might be some truth in the
folk nonsense that nuclear
tests had something to do with
raising the mean temperature
of the world,” the AEC man
said. “But our scientists
quickly found they weren’t to
blame.”

“Clever of them."

“Yes, they saw that the
widespread use of your ma-
chines was responsible for the
higher temperature. Your de-

THE EXPENDABLES

123

vice violates the law of con-
servation of energy, seeming-
ly. It seemingly destroys mat-
ter without creating energy.
Actually —

He paused dramatically,

“Actually, your device add-
ed the energy it created in
destroying matter to the en-
ergy potential of the planet in
the form of heat. You see
what that means? If your de-
vices continue in operation,
the mean temperature of
Earth will rise to the point
where we burst into flame.
They must be outlawed!”

“I agree,” I said reluctantly.

Tony Carmen spoke up.
“No, you don’t. Professor.
We don’t agree to that.”

I waved his protests aside.

“I would agree,” I said, “ex-
cept that it wouldn’t work.
Explain the danger to the pub-
lic, let them feel the heat rise
themselves, and they will
hoard Expendables against
seizure and continue to use
them, until we do burst into
flame, as you put it so re-
ligiously.”

“Why?” the young man de-
manded.

“Because Expendables are
convenient. There is a ban on
frivolous use of water due to
the dire need. But the police
still have to go stop people
from watering lawns, and I
suspect not a few swimming
pools are being filled on the
sly. Water is somebody else’s
worry. So will be generating
enough heat to turn Eden into
Hell.”

“Mass psychology isn’t my
strongest point,” the young
man said worriedly. . “But I
suspect you may be right.
Then — we’ll be damned?” , ,

“No, not necessarily,” I told
him comfortingly. “All we
have to do is use up the excess
energy with engines of a spe-
cific design.”

“But can we design those
engines in time?” the young
man wondered with uncharac-
teristic gloom.

“Certainly,” I said, practis-
ing the power of positive
thinking. “Now that your
world-wide testing laborato-
ries have confirmed a vague
fear of mine, I can easily re-
verse the field of the Expend-
able device and create a rather
low-efficiency engine that
consumes the excess energy in
our planetary potential.”

'^HE agent of the AEC
^ whose name I can never
remember was present along
with Tony Carmen the night
my assistants finished with
the work I had outlined.

While it was midnight out-
side, the fluorescents made
the scene more visible than
sunlight. My Disexpendable
was a medium-sized drum in
a tripod frame with an un-
turned coolie’s hat at the bot-
tom.

Breathlessly, I closed the
switch and the scooped disc
began slowly to revolve.

“Is it my imagination,”, the
agent asked, “or is it getting
cooler in here?”

BY JIM HARMON

124

^Professor.’* Carmen gave
me a warning nudge*

There was now something
on the revolving disc. It was a
bar of some shiny gray metal.

‘‘Kill the power, Professor/*
Carmen said.

‘'Can it be,** I wondered,
**that the machine is somehow
recreating or drawing back
the processed material from
some other time or dimen-
sion?”

“Shut the thing off, Venet-
ti r’ the racketeer demanded.

But too late.

There was now a somewhat
dead man sitting in the saddle
of the turning circle of metal.

If Harry Keno had only
been sane when he turned up
on that merry-go-round in
Boston I feel we would have
learned much of immense val-
ue on the nature of time and
space.

As it is, I feel that it is a
miscarriage of justice to hold
me in connection with the
murders I am sure Tony Car-
men did commit.

I hope this personal account

when published will end the
vicious story supported by the
district attorney that it was I
who sought Tony Carmen out
and offered to dispose of his
enemies and that I sought his
financial backing for the ex-
ploitation of my invention.

This is the true, and only
true, account of the develop-
ment of the machine known as
the Expendable.

I am only sorry, now that
the temperature has been
standardized once more, that
the Expendable’s antithesis,
the Disexpendable, is of too
low an order of efficiency to
be of much value as a power
source in these days of. nu-
clear and solar energy. So the
world is again stuck with the
problem of waste disposal...
including all that I dumped
before. But as a great Ameri-
can once said, you can’t win
’em all.

If you so desire, you may
send your generous and fruit-
ful letters towards my upcom-
ing defense in care of this
civic-minded publication.

END

★ ★★★★★★★

Don’t miss the April GALAXY MAGAZINE!

A PLANET FOR PLUNDERING

by Jack Williamson
BIG BABY
by Jack Sharkey

Avram Davidson, Allen Kim Lang, Arthur C. Clarke, Willy
Ley science column and many other features. April GALAXY
still on sale. Get your copy today!

THE EXPENDABLES

125

HUE

AND

CRY

The place where reader
and editor meet . . •

Dear Editor:

The cover of the March is-
sue was very well drawn and
has greatly improved. As you
promised, the interior art was
a good deal better than earlier
issues. Keep working on it
and IP’s quality will continue
rising.

Anderson's story was good,
although not among his best.
Let’s have more of him. En-
joyed E Being bit, even
though it was a little wild.
How about some stories from
Sturgeon?

Overall, March issue was
superb. Keep up the good
work!

Winfred Anderson
Springfield, Tennessee
P.S. In the cover picture the

126

piece of wreckage seems to be
painted red. My question is>
how come the paint doesn’t
burn off from friction when
the ship enters the atmos-
phere?

* Simple. It does burn off.
Repainting it every time is
how they keep the spacemen
busy. — Editor^

Dear Editor:

The cover illustration for
Kings Who Die in the tenth
anniversary issue was a mas-
terpiece as was the story it-
self.

Am enjoying very much the
series of stories about Retief
and hope they continue to be
as good as they have been so
far.

1962 looks like a good year
for IF!

David Charles Paskow

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Dear Sir:

IF of March, 1962, Happy
Homicide, p. 82, records the
fallacy (such even in a futur-
istic setup) that brain tissue,
dead longer than five minutes,
still contains mind vibrations
traceable by a super-dooper
encephalogram. If brain and
mind be identical, then violin
and violinist are interchange-
able as well. Even fiddler Al-
bert Einstein thought so, leav-
ing his erstwhile brain to sci-
ence. Did the microtome lo-
cate his genius? General tenor
of IF ingenious, plausible,
well edited, facetious fiddle-
sticks at minimum, genuine
merit. Candid editorial excel-
lent. Four-dimensional wis-
dom unknowable to us 3-di-
mensional clucks. Will convey
info if anything fulminant
crosses my horizon. Psionics
inconstant undeveloped toy.
All the best to you, yours, etc.

E. M. Smola
New York City

Dear Editors — ^whoever you
are:

It*s been many years (more
than I care to remember) since
I sat down last and hacked out
a letter to a pro-editor. Even
so, I was surprised to see Ken
Winkes’s letter in your Janu-
ary issue; I have always been
under the impression that a
letter column was supposed to

HUE AND CRY

be for just the purpose that
he suggests — discussion, argu-
ment, (you should forgive the
expression) hue and cry. Or
have letter columns changed
that much in the last ten
years ?

I wonder if Ken Winkes re-
members the letter columns of
the old Thrilling Wonder Sto-
ries, Startling Stories (under
Sam Merwin and Sam Mines)
and Planet Stories (under
Robert Lowndes). I suppose
all of us in those days had, to
a certain degree, the so-called
“sense of wonder.'^ But such
letter columns — eight, ten
pages long — those were the
days when professional au-
thors were regular contribu-
tors, and the discussion
ranged from new findings of
Sumerian artifacts in the Ira-
nian desert to the latest devel-
opments in rocket fuels. Now,
the Sumerian artifacts have
withdrawn to the museums
and the artificial satellites are
circling the Earth by the doz-
en."^ometimes I think the guy
was right who said that famil-
iarity breeds contempt.

Of course the inevitable
happened. Between rising
costs of magazine publishing
and waning interest on the
part of the letter writers, the
forum-type letter column was
doomed to extinction; and in
my mind at least, now occu-
pies the same portion of the
imagination usually reserved
for particularly idyllic mem-
ories.

Since Ken asks, suppose we

127

try a definition of this term
‘‘sense of wonder” (even
though it's rather like trying
to define “time.”) My diction-
ary defines “wonder” as:

, .thing or event that causes
astonishment and admiration
...feeling of surprise. . .and
awe aroused by something
strange. . unexpected, incred-
ible ; to have doubt mingled
with curiosity.” And: “Sense;
the ability of the nerves and
brain to receive and react to
stimuli.”

‘"Sense of wonder: The

brain reaction to a set of
stimuli which inspire awe,
astonishment, admiration, sur-
prise; to be inspired by these
stimuli to doubt (no doubt
mixed with curiosity) ; aston-
ishment and unexpected in-
credulity; the whole thing be-
ing a function of a vivid
imagination.”

It's a tenuous thing, this
“sense of wonder.” To have
one, you must have imagina-
tion. In fact, a sense of won-
der and imagination are two
hairs of the same dog — you
might say, two sides of the
same hair. It is not something
limited to a reading and ap-
preciation of science fiction.
Imagination opens the lock on
any door, shows the way to
the solving of any problem. It
is just that, to many people,
science fiction is a whole new
set of doors. Before 1957, one
of these doors opened to the
regions of near space. Now
that sputniks and satellites
are shooting about all over up

there, the frontier has all but
vanished. It is “explored” ter-
ritory. Near space has attained
the status of the “Old West”
during the early years of this
century — almost all explored,
filled with dust, weather and
hundreds of people just trying
to live there, never mind how
wonderful it is.

Someone said not too long
ago that once men have gone
to the moon there will be an-
other frontier gone — after all,
what enjoyment is there in
reading a story about a trip
across country in a car? Many
stories were written about
that very thing, years ago.
Now cross-country trips are a
matter of course.

Imagination — the “sense of
wonder” — hasn't vanished and
it never will. But with each
stride forward of science, a
portion of what was once alive
only in the imagination be-
comes hard living fact. You
don't have to use your imagi-
nation to deal with it... at
least with the basic parts of it.

But for every problem
solved there are a hundred
new ones. It is impossible for
Man to become bored with
evervthing — at least, not for a
few hundred thousand years.

A dying gasp from,
Ray Thompson
Norfolk, Nebraska
P.S. SAVE YOUR CONFED-
ERATE FANZINES, BOYS.
ECLIPSE SHALL RISE
AGAIN!

* Bob Lowndes, one of the
oldest and best friends of

128

** whoever you are”, ably edit-
ed many a magazine, but Plan-
et Stories wasn't one of them.
Mai Reiss, Jerry Bixby, Paul
Fairman, Scott Peacock were
a few of Planet*s eminent
helmsmen.

But with the rest of what
yoii say we agree ! Science fic-
tion doesn't suffer because
science moves along. There
are always new frontiers — aU
ways new discoveries — always
new things to look at through
the illuminating mirror that
our writers hold up for us.

— Editor.

Dear Mr. Sturgeon:

I send this along to you for
several reasons. 1 : Readers
seldom influence the format
of publishing policy of a mag-
azine— only its life or death.
2 : As a feature editor you can
think about and discuss many
things an editor must reject.

Over Labor Day I attended
the Sci-Fic Convention here
in Seattle. I was pleased with
the convention — -but the one
factor that disturbed me was
the percentage of middle-age
and past m i d d 1 e-aged to
youth. Lots of young people —
to be sure — but not nearly
enough.

Again, the high per cent of
the youth that fell into the
“screwball” or “fad” division.
Fads are soon dropped as peo-
ple mature. Will they drop s.f.
as well? I think so.

I have been working for.
Boeing Airplane Company the
past couple of years, and I

HUE AND CRY

have been working on advance
planning on Dyna-Soar III.
Wandering about in 1966 and
doing niuch of what I used to
dream of doing when I was in
high school and finally got
the training to do. The thing
I have noted (has been noted
elsewhere) is the lack of in-
terest among our younger
employees in the actual pro-
ject— aside from pay day.

What is the problem? Well,
I think it has been the loss of
“bridge material” in s.f. The
loss of space opera has been
lauded in some areas — but kids
that have been raised on Matt
Dillon and “The Untouch-
ables” have a tough time
transferring their interest to
the advanced pages of Analog
or Galaxy. IF does pop up
with some but — only once in a
while.

Let them find their way to
the advanced social and tech-
nical S-F through plain old
space opera!

Fred Crisman

Tacoma, Washington
* 1: We v/ere at Seattle too,

and noticed the lack of young-
er fans, relatively speaking.
Heard a very logical explana-
tion, though. Seattle being
very far from usual fannish
hangouts, only the more sol-
vent— which is generally to
say, the older — fans could
scrape up the carfare. 2: IF
tries real hard to bring good
‘*space opera” to its readers.
We like it too. The hard part
is convincing the writers to
write it for us. 3: A boon, f el-

129

lows! Please don’t address
your letters to Our Bearded
Feature Editor, or the art di-
rector, or the publisher. This
involves us either in forward-
ing mail back and forth —
which takes time and lets
some of it get lost, we fear —
or in opening Our Bearded
Feature Editor’s personal mail
from old loves, ardent fans
and long-lost relatives — which
involves us in angry re-
proaches. Just: “Hue & Cry,
c/o IF” will do fine. At great
expense to ourselves we em-
ploy a large secretarial staff —
or anyway, a staff composed
of 1 large secretary — to sort
things out. Trust her!

— Editor,

Dear Editor:

Okay, okay, you’ve put the
“Worlds of” back in the title
were it belonged, but how do
you Fead it now? “IF —
Worlds of Science Fiction” or
“Worlds of IF — Science Fic-
tion”? The former is the origi-
nal title and by far the best
one. Will be eagerly awaiting
your answer, since I bind my
copies by myself and don’t
know which of the titles to
put on the spine of the maga-
zine.

Congrats on the new cover
and spine logos ; they look
much better in the bookcase.
But what’s the big idea, using
just one metallic clip, or what-

er you call it? Does this
really cut costs, or is this just
plain avarice?

There used to be occasional

(and very good too, I might
add) anthologies, of which the
last one was The Second
World of If. Why couldn’t
you continue the series? I’m
sure the readers would receive
them back enthusiastically.
Also, why not have Ted Stur-
geon review some books each
issue? A book review feature
is very necessary to a maga-
zine. And, while you’re at it,
get somebody to write science
articles, eight to ten pages
long, not those skimpy news
items Sturgeon is forced to
do; Scientific American does
them much better. By the way,
I am also entirely in favor of
a 3-4 page editorial and some
6 pages of letters. Come now,
it isn’t very much, is it?

Alexander Yudenitch

San Paulo, Brazil
* Re avarice: We’re trying
to do something about that
now, though it pains our
greedy soul to part with the
price of an extra staple.
(That’s a joke. The problem is
actually more complicated —
but we are working on it.) Re
“Science News Briefs”: Okay,
we’ve killed them. Like this
month’s Sturgeon science ar-
ticle better? Re anthologies:
We're working on that, too.
Let you know more about it
soon. — Editor.

By the way, you letter-writ-
ers— take a look at The Other
IF in this issue before you sit
down to a typewriter again.
Might give you something
fresh to think about! END

130

YOURSI

THE NEXT 16

BIG ISSUES OF IF

FOR ONLY $3.95- SAVING YOU $1.65
!F YOU ACCEPT THIS SPECIAL OFFER

If you wonder what happened to the "wonder” In your
science-fiction stories — it’s in IF! Every issue packed
with new, fast tales of tomorrow and space!

THE KIND OF SCIENCE FICTION
THAT YOU'VE MISSED FOR YEARS

IF brings you new stories by old masters, plus the best of
today’s new writers-challenging ideas combined with skillful
writing and all the adventure and thrills of interstellar space
itself!

The greatest names in science fiction
WRITE FOR IF

Del Roy, Clarke, Harmon, Schmiti, Pohl, Davidson, SImak,
Bloch, Keyes, Sturgeon, Galouye, Sharkey, McIntosh, Fyfe;
Dickson — they’re ail In IF!

.CUP COUPON AND MAIL TODAY

I if 421 Hudson St., New York 14, N. Y.

• Yes! Send me the next 16 big Issues of IF! I enclose

I S3.95. (Outside of N. and S. America add $1.35 postage.)

Name

Address

City.

Zone State

Use coupon or order by letter if you wish

The BEMs in your neighborhood

won't run off with your books
if you put inside the front cover
of eoch book ... a gummed bookplate
with your name printed on it I

FINAGLE SAYS —

The umpteenth corollary
of Finagle's General Law of
Dynamic Negatives says:
"No books are ever lost
by loaning except ones you
particularly want to keep."

100 for $4, -200, $6; 300, $8
with owner's name imprinted

All Postpaid. Add state sales tax, if any.

amr

Name Here

ACTUAL SIZE, all desi;

The designs shown above are the only ones we offer ^

Order from If MAGAZINE 421 Hudson Street, New York 14, N.Y,

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Texts

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "Worlds of IF (May 1962)"

See other formats